


Any Less of You

by angstlover, ShezzasCompanion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Anxiety, Asexual Sherlock, Depression, Flashbacks, Gen, Nightmares, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, PTSD, PTSD Sherlock, Panic Attacks, Platonic bed sharing, Self-Harm, Series 3 AU, Sherlock Whump, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, concerned john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:50:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 41,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4058935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angstlover/pseuds/angstlover, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShezzasCompanion/pseuds/ShezzasCompanion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He didn’t destroy you Sherlock; you are the same person you were.”</p>
<p>Sherlock's chest tightened in repressed agitation. "Except that I'm not! He tore down everything that made me who I was; he took away things - intangible things - that I can never get back. And it all happened because I was too fucking weak to defend myself!"</p>
<p>Sherlock's two year mission has affected him greatly and his attempt to keep it hidden from John doesn't go as planned and his flatmate begins to ask questions about what actually happened during his time away, leaving Sherlock to face his demons and the nightmares that are left to plague him.</p>
<p>______________________________________________<br/>Russian Translation by nightspell available <i><a href="https://ficbook.net/readfic/3345239">here</a></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They were getting back into the swing of things or so to speak. It didn’t take them long to fall back into the rhythm of solving crimes like they had down before the fall, Though there were some differences, not only with building their friendship back up to what it had been, but John had noticed some differences when it came to Sherlock.  He seemed quieter than before, more subdued and could be easily startled by loud unexpected noises, though when John asked him about it, he just brushed it off, though it wasn’t something John was going to let go forever and the mostly quiet day seemed to be the perfect time to bring it up.

“Sherlock, I think we need to have a discussion.”

Sherlock looked up from his microscope. Discussion? It was midday on a Saturday afternoon. The latest case had been solved the previous day. He hadn’t started any new experiment hazardous enough to be worthy of John’s nagging. He had replaced all the burnt furniture from his previous experiment with new ones. And he couldn’t recall any instances in which he said anything that crossed the line. All things considered, it was a very typical day, nothing beyond the routine of the past couple of months.

He focused again on the microscope.

“Discussion? About what?”

John stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over his chest as he watched Sherlock for a moment before adverting his eyes elsewhere, to stop this from being uncomfortable.

“I’ve noticed some things lately and I think we need to talk about them.” He voiced. “I think that it would be important to talk about them, if you don’t mind.”

Sherlock remains fixated on his microscope. He didn’t put much weight on John’s words. Vague sentences. Might be dull.

“Yes. Sure. Get to the point John and stop wasting my time,” he said monotonously, in the same manner he usually spoke to his half-boring clients.

John sighed as he shifted his weight, scolding himself for trying to make an introduction, a bridge of sorts into the subject matter, but that doesn’t matter now.

“What happened to you over there?” He asked abruptly, “It isn’t nothing either.”

That got Sherlock’s attention. His fingers removed itself from the focus knob as a reflex. Only for a brief second, but still observable had John paid close attention.

“Your words could use a bit of specificity, John,” he said dismissively. “But if it’s the Windibank case you’re talking about, I said what I had to say to solve it. Hardly manipulative, I don’t believe I crossed any of your so-called line.”

 

He wasn’t stupid. Of course he knew what John was truly referring to. The scars on his body. Despite continuing to live together, he had succeeded in keeping John in the dark about what happened in Serbia. Everything had been carefully calculated. John typically leaves for work at 8 am, arrives back home around 6 pm, which gave Sherlock the time and privacy he needed to attend to his wounds. But a couple of days ago, John had come home unexpectedly early and saw the scars. Sherlock was changing the bandages on his back with the door of his room left open. As soon as he was aware of John’s presence, he rushed to his door and slammed it shut, hoping that John hadn’t seen anything. But John did see it. Sherlock saw John’s expression change, within that few seconds as the door was swinging, John saw a glimpse his battered body. He saw John’s expression falter to that of pure horror. The door slammed before John managed to say anything to him. Good. He didn’t want it discussed. Not then, not now.

“That isn’t what I am talking about Sherlock, and you know it.” John stated, he knew Sherlock’s methods when it came to cases, the way he played his so called cards to get the answers, and he was so use to it by now, that didn’t bother him. What bothered him of course, was the state of Sherlock’s body and the glimpse he had seen when he had come home early, before the door had slammed in his face.

He had put off truly asking Sherlock about what had happened, but he couldn’t do that, not now, not when he had seen the malted bruises and the welts that were healing into scars. He wanted to know who or what had done that to his best friend, and for the most part, he wanted to know why, a better why than the ones he had been given.

“You know that I am talking about the lacerations and bruises I saw the other day, Sherlock, That is a whole lot of something to be nothing.”

John finally said it. The bruises. There was no point in pretending now.

“Yes, I have bruises on my body. That’s what happens when you get captured and beat up in enemy territory. Surely even a brain as tiny as yours could deduce that much, John. What else would you expect to have happened while I was away, a picnic in the park, cherry picking in the garden?” Sherlock hissed. He turns to John, his eyes glaring at him like a dagger.

“Oh no wait, if I recalled correctly your exact words were ‘playing hide and seek.’” He turns back to his microscope, adjusting the magnification knob to find the perfect focus. “The bruises have mostly healed, urgency is no longer required. The only reason why you’re so determined to talk about it is because of your own irrational sense of guilt, and having this conversation serves no real purpose but to alleviate your own guilt.”

He turned his head to face John. “What do you expect me to tell you, John? A sob story?” Every word spoken was filled with intention to hurt. A deliberate attempt to drive John away.

“Stop boring me and go away.”

Sherlock was always capable of cutting people down, John had always seen it first hand and he had occasionally been on the receiving end, but never to this extent. The words sliced through him, though if Sherlock’s intention was to drive him, he wasn’t going to.

“Is that what you think this is? That this is some sort of way to clear my conscious? Because I have something to be guilty over.” John snapped. “Yeah I did feel guilty, I felt guilty when I had to bury you, why? Because as Doctor I failed to notice any signs associated with suicidal behavior.”

“What I expect you to tell me is the truth and not some vague story that you come up with on the spot, I don’t want a damn sob story.” He continued, his attention focused on Sherlock, he was determined to get somewhere. “I want to know what happened because I think I deserve that much.”

“I’ve told you what happened,” Sherlock spat, his hands clenched tightly into a fist, an attempt to minimize the trembling. “Let it go, John.”

He didn’t even realized when his hands had started shaking. His fingers dug deeper into his palms, hoping that it would stop the tremor. His heart began to race. A wave of nausea engulfed him. He could feel panic creeping in.

_What happened?_

His mind began to race out of control. Everything that he wanted to forget, everything he’d tried so hard to delete, came rushing back, flooding his mind with images he never wished to remember, and the sounds. The sound of a whip cracking, shackles pulling at his arms. And his voice, the screams of agony and pain. Strike after strike, the sounds that came out of his mouth no longer sounded human as his captor continued to beat him mercilessly. He could feel the burning pain on his skin once more. Not the numbness of a healing wound, but the scorching sensation of a fresh tear on his skin. It felt real. As though he was in Serbia again. The crack of a whip right before it tore his skin apart. Blood trickling down his back as the whip continued to strike at the same area. Criss-crossed all over his back, the whip met with his skin repeatedly, splitting apart his flesh further where it had already been cut.

_Stop!_

The chains pulled him apart at his shackled arms. His feet could barely touch the ground, unable to carry any of his weight, which left only his arms to sustain the full force of his suspended body. A metal pipe this time. Hitting him at the ribcage.

His heart pounded violently against his chest.

He closed his eyes, wishing it would erase the images from his head. Space. He needed space. Away from John’s scrutiny. He rose abruptly and quickly made his way towards his bedroom. John pulled at his shoulders and opened his mouth, as though he had something to say.

“I SAID LET IT GO!” Sherlock cuts off before giving John a chance to utter a single syllable.

He tugged his arms free from John’s grasp and dashed towards his room. He could hear the sound of John’s feet trailing him, possibly in seek of another attempt to instigate the conversation. But Sherlock slammed the door and locked it before John could reach him a second time.

He needed to calm down. He couldn’t let John see him like this, so broken and weak. In the safety of his room, he knew there was no danger, where the familiarity of the Periodic Table greeted him, and his king-sized bed provided him with the constancy of comfort. He was safe. He knew, logically, that he was safe.

Yet it did nothing to slow down his breathing. His whole body was shaking like a leaf. He was panting, breathing even more rapidly than before. At this rate he was going to hyperventilate. Everything was spinning around him, his vision began to vignette.

_The captor grabbed his hair roughly. His free hand balled into a fist. A final blow to the head._

Lights out.

 

John stood there staring at the door just a few centimeters away from his face, his heart was pounding against his chest, adrenaline coursing through his body. So much had transpired over such a small amount of time that he was still processing it.

With a quiet sigh he slowly turned away from the door, Sherlock had panicked, and that was his fault, because he had pushed the subject, he had pushed Sherlock. He cursed himself, he should have known better, but he just wanted to help, He just wanted to be useful, he was a doctor, he healed people.

The tile echoed under his feet as he made his way through the kitchen and into the sitting room to sink into the sofa, his head resting in his hands. This wasn’t as simple and clear cut as he hoped it was. Of course how could it be with Sherlock’s body looking like that? If he was going to help Sherlock he was going to have to do it another way.

The silence was broken when a loud thud echoed from Sherlock’s bedroom.

Sherlock landed on his back, unable to remember what had happened or where he was any longer. All he knew was that he couldn’t breathe, he was gasping for air. He could feel his consciousness slipping away. His hand rose, aiming to reach for the door knob, wishing that by some miracle he could reach it and maybe someone could save him. But there was no energy left in him, the oxygen that he desperately needed for his body to function didn’t reach his brain.

The struggle for his life felt like it went on for hours, though in reality it was no longer than a few seconds. A brief moment later, his hand dropped and his whole body went limp. Everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally got Sherlock to talk about his strange recent behaviour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Descriptions of torture

John’s head snapped up as he heard the loud noise come from his flatmate’s bedroom.

In a heart beat he was up on his feet and down the short hall, his hand on the door knob. “Sherlock?” he called, the worry evident in his voice as he leaned into the surface, but there was no answer, not even a sound and that was more concerning than anything.

“Sherlock?” he called again. “Sherlock’ I’m coming in.”he announced as he turned the knob, finding it turned with ease, meaning it wasn’t locked. The doctor pushed it open slowly and then all at once as soon as it became obvious Sherlock wasn’t in his bed.

John rushed forward and knelt next to the man on the floor, lightly tapping his face wit one hand before checking for a pulse with another. “Sherlock, can you hear me?… Christ.” 

 

Sherlock could hear the faint voices surrounding him, the words indecipherable. His cheeks touching the concrete floor, his entire body felt limp. He tried to open his eyes but soon realized how difficult this simple task seemed, his eyes feeling unnaturally heavy. Suddenly a loud ringing noise filled his ears and his eyes clenched tightly as a reflex of the unexpected high pitch noise. As the tinnitus dissipated from his senses, the voices around him started to become clearer. Two people, two distinct voices, but they weren’t speaking in English. It took him a couple of seconds before he could successfully identify the foreign language - Serbian.

“Do what you want with him, but keep him alive,” one of the men spoke in a gruff voice. He was tall, approximately 190 cm in height, muscular body, and had dark, short hair. The other man was slightly shorter in comparison, his muscles toned underneath his tight black shirt. Sherlock squinted his eyes as he struggled to gain focus of his sight, attempting to gather more visual information of the two mysterious men, but his attempts were for naught. The room was poorly lit, containing only two hanging lamps insufficiently illuminating only certain areas of the room. “We need him for information,” the dark-haired man instructed once again. The shorter man nodded and raised his hand to his head as a salute before his taller colleague headed to exit the room.

Sherlock followed the Serbian’s movements as he walked closer towards him. A metal pipe lying on the floor a just few meters from his face was picked up by the Serbian which made his hands jerk in response as an attempt to lift himself up, his fight-or-flight instinct kicking in. But there was no energy left in him, his arms were not strong enough to raise the entire weight of his body. The Serbian kneeled down, leveling with Sherlock who lied limp on the dirty floor, he grabbed Sherlock by the hair and tugged his head roughly so their eyes could meet.

The Serbian opened his mouth and spoke words which, oddly enough, could not be heard. Sherlock gave him a confused look, which made the Serbian jerk at his hair more violently. A grunt escaped his mouth. Suddenly, he became awfully aware of how hard he was breathing, the sweat mixed with blood dripping down his chin, the dried blood trail on his arms, the excruciating pain on his back. The Serbian tilted his head sardonically, his mouth moved as though he was talking but once again, nothing could be heard. There was only the sound of his beating heart and the squeaks of the oscillating hanging lamp above him. Everything felt familiar. A sinking feeling of panic swept over them, a paralyzing fear.

As seconds passed with Sherlock desisting reply, the Serbian lost patience with his helpless prisoner. He rose up to his feet, his metal pipe at hand, and swung the weapon aiming at Sherlock’s abdomen. Sherlock quickly braced himself to fetal position, but his movements were sluggish, the metal pipe hit him before he managed to protect his body. The pain was excruciating, beyond anything he could describe. Mere moments later, a second strike arrived at his body. And then a third. A fourth. Sherlock screamed in agony as his attacker pounded him ruthlessly. His throat was dry and every grunt that escaped him strained his voice further and further. But there was nothing else he could do besides cry out in pain. His body felt strangely weak, his hands were heavy, and his legs seemed immobilized. None of it made sense yet everything seemed so familiar. The torture went on until all he could hear was white noise.

Slowly, the noise turned to distant sirens and incoherent voices. There was one voice in particular which seemed nearby. But this time, the voice sounded pleasantly familiar, it made him feel safe.

_“ ………-lock?”_

_“…Sherlock?”_

_“Sherlock?!”_

John. At the comfort of his flatmate’s voice, Sherlock drew a deep, shuddering breath as his eyes fluttered slightly. He didn’t know where he was, he couldn’t differentiate between dreams and reality anymore, all he knew was how tired his body was and how mentally exhausted he was. But whatever happens, he wanted nothing else but to rest, with John’s soothing voice as the last thing that he hears, Sherlock slips away once again to unconsciousness.

Five. ten, Fifteen minutes past by agonizingly slowly as John knelt next to Sherlock, his mind racing as fast as his heart as he called his flatmates name, cataloging the way his pulse raced under his fingers, the way his breathe came out in gasps as shifted on the floor of his bedroom and the most he could do at the moment was to just make sure there was no way Sherlock’s movements could further agitated the wounds he had seen by accident.

“Sherlock?” He began to call after the twenty minute mark, his worry skyrocketing 

“Sherlock?”

“Sherlock?!” This time there was no patting his his friends face, instead he cupped the side of it in his hand gently, more worried about possibly startling the other man awake then he was about being hit if the taller man happened to lash out against him.

The shuddered breathe and fluttering eyes were enough to rush some relief through John’s body before the detective went lax under his hands. John shifted his body, planting one foot on the floor as he moved to carefully slip his arms under the taller names neck and knees, easing him up slowly as he pushed himself to his feet. Sherlock’s head lolled against his shoulder as John shifted him into a better position before making his way towards the detectives bed.

John eased him down, and pulled the covers over his body, in an attempted to make him more comfortable, well as comfortable as Sherlock could have been after being on the floor for so long and now all there was to do was to wait for Sherlock to wake up.

 

When Sherlock finally came to, he awoke to the sight of his room, his head resting comfortably on a soft pillow. He furrowed his brows, wondering how he ended up back in Baker Street when the last thing he remembered was being held prisoner in a foreign land. It took him a couple of seconds to gather his mind together and realized with horror the events that transpired prior. He’s had a panic attack. In front of John. He sat up abruptly at the thought and soon realized that John was standing at the door, watching him.

_John saw._

_John saw how broken I was._

_Damaged. Pathetic._

His face turned white, fear rushing over him. Immediately he positioned himself to the edge of the bed with his back facing the door, unable to will himself to look at John.

“Leave,” he said evenly, wishing that the firmness was enough to convince his flatmate to let him be. “Leave John.”

“Please.” His voice escaped as a whispered sob.

How utterly pathetic.

Yet he couldn’t stop himself when tears began to stream down his face. He wrapped his arms tightly around his abdomen, an attempt to stop his body from shivering. He couldn’t let John see him cry.

“Please…. Just leave.”

John had been monitoring Sherlock off and on for the last few hours, making sure he was alright, that he was comfortable. And now he was standing there as Sherlock began to waken, and the look of horror on Sherlock’s face when he realized he had seen.

“I am not leaving Sherlock.” John stated as he took a cautionary step forward into the room. His heart breaking as he heard the sob escaping Sherlock’s lips. “I am not leaving you.”

He took another step forward, ready for Sherlock to turn and lash out at him. “I am not leaving, I am here for you…. to help you. Please.”

That was something John was afraid of, Sherlock pushing him away, sinking lower and lower until there is no hope for him to save Sherlock, his friend. And that had already happened and he didn’t want that, not again.

Sherlock stayed still in silence, holding his breath to restrain his sniffled sob. He let John touch his shoulders, flinching at the initial contact before his shoulders relaxed mere seconds later.

And momentarily, all his panic, all his fears vanished, and the only thing that mattered in this world was the warmth offered by John’s touch. If he believed in the existence of a divine deity, he would wish for this moment to continue on forever. To feel John’s presence, a reassurance that everything was alright. But he was soon broken out of his reverie when the possible consequences of his actions played through his head.

After all, no one wants to deal with a broken man. So Sherlock continued to stay silent.

John gave Sherlock’s shoulders a gentle squeeze, the tension in his body was tangible. He wanted nothing more than to ease Sherlock’s fears and worries, he just wanted to protect him.

“Sherlock, you don’t have to hold it in, let it out. I’m not going anywhere.” John reassured him, his hands still on his shoulders as he looked down at Sherlock’s face, his red eyes and the teeth sinking into his lip as he tried not to sob and cry out. “Sherlock, I won’t think any less of you.”

“Why?” Sherlock questioned, stealing a glance at his flatmate before looking down to his feet “You should.”

“I do,” he added, the words muttered under his breath, too soft for John to hear.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock expresses concern about his mental state.

“Give me a reason why I should?” John asked as he looked down at the top of Sherlock’s head “Why should I think any less of you?”

“Would you think any less of me if the tables were turned?” He asked after a moment.

“No,” snapped Sherlock, his voice quavering. “Because you won’t do what I did.”

“Maybe I would, maybe I wouldn’t, you don’t know that.” John replied. “You don’t know what I wouldn’t do.”

Sherlock huffs to himself and lets his chin drop in a tiny nod.

John was looking at him intently, paying attention to his every micro-expression, every slight flinch and every small movement - all for John to see, to scrutinize. He felt so naked. He had to say something, he knew that, John was waiting for him.

“You saw my scars,” Sherlock stated briefly. “You’ve seen how damaged I am.”

“Your scars doesn’t make you damaged, Sherlock—”

“But it’s not just the scars though!” Sherlock interrupts. “The scars - that’s just my body, just transport. It needs to heal, I accept that. But my mind–”

His hands clasped tightly, mentally preparing himself for what he’s about to say next.

“My mind is broken, John. It’s been two months since I returned. But yet I keep having these flashbacks, these nightmares. Every time I close my eyes, the only thing I see is him, my captor. And...and I just I can’t think straight. Every single second that I was in there, imprisoned, chained up, beaten, everything replays in my mind, and everything is so vivid. No matter how many times I’ve tried to delete it, it keeps coming back. And I can’t stop it.”

John had heard people describe symptoms like that before, they were the others who had been invalided home, the ones that had been at the hospital longer than he had, those were the symptoms he had described to Ella when he actually opened up to her about why he was there.

“Sherlock, this isn’t something that you can just will away.” John explained. “This isn’t something you can just delete and go on with your life, you suffered a great deal of trauma, some that I can’t even imagine and I know you will never tell me.”

John sighed as he looked down at Sherlock’s clenched hands on his lap, the way he was staring down at his feet. “Just because you can’t delete this doesn’t mean you are damaged, it just mean that it is going to take some time. From what I know and what I remember from my early sessions with Ella, the symptoms you are describing sound similar to those that coincide with Post Traumatic stress.”

“I know what they are,” Sherlock snapped with more hostility than he intended. “I just....”

_My mind._

_It was supposed to be brilliant._

_So why did it break in the same ordinary ways?_

But he couldn’t bring himself to say it, how conceited he must sound. It was true though, as much as he always loved to boast about it, Sherlock did believe his mind to be extraordinary than most. Always having complete control of his emotions, never letting it cloud his judgement, relying only on cold, hard facts and logic and rationality to rule all actions. His mind was strong, unwavering.

Until now.

He knew, deep down, that he wasn’t fine, that it wasn’t normal for someone to keep having these recurrent nightmares so long after the incident has ended. And now it seems to have gotten worse, he was used to having those night terrors in his sleep, petrifying as it was. But now he’d had a vivid flashback, right in the middle of the day, and all it took to trigger that was for John to ask him what had happened. One simple question. He knew whatever was happening to his mental state was deteriorating. Fast. But if he conceded to this truth, then what else could he rely on if he couldn’t trust his own mind?

He found himself with nothing left to say.

His eyes met with the floor once again, feeling completely exhausted.

“John it’s late,” he said as he looked out the window, noting the street lamps of Baker Street enlightening the empty road beneath the night sky. Since John first approached him with that innocent question earlier that day, Sherlock had felt as though he was under constant stress. An overwhelming concoction of anger, fear, panic, and humiliation that was beyond his control. “I want to rest.”

John found himself at a loss as he dropped his hands to his side and gave Sherlock a soft nod as he turned to make his way to the bedroom door. He sounded tired, defeated, and probably felt a thousand different ways that he would never tell John, but it wasn’t like John didn’t understand.

“I’ll be in the sitting room if you need me.” He told Sherlock, though at the back of his mind he doubted the detective would come and get him if anything went wrong, and it agitated him, not the fact Sherlock wanted to deal with his on his own, but because it felt like there was nothing he could do.

And that was disappointing.

“Don’t hesitate if you do, Sherlock, like I said earlier, I won’t, I don’t think any less of you.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and nodded without saying anything. He heard the door close behind him as John exits the room. His body sagged as he shudders a breath, not knowing if it was a sigh of relief or something else entirely. John’s final words echoed in his head.

_I don’t think any less of you._

But John had no idea what he was talking about, probably not. Without context, it’s easy for anyone to make noble promises they couldn’t keep. If John knew what he did, if John found out about his betrayal, would he still stay by Sherlock’s side?

He shook his head and stood up from his bed. He had no intentions of going back to sleep any time soon, not if he wanted to avoid the nightmares. Besides, he had just woken up so sleep deprivation was not a concern at this point. He proceeded to turn on his laptop and check his emails, perhaps solve some of the cases he previously deemed “too dull”, in the hopes that it would provide him with a certain level of normality.

John turned the telly on, though the volume was just loud enough to break the silence, though not loud enough to drown on Sherlock if he was to call out for him. Though John knew it was a slim to none chance that would happen.

The fact that Sherlock had asked him what would he need him for still echoed in the back of his mind even now, and he knew Sherlock would never ask for help, either because he was too proud or because he thought that he should be above this, or both. John didn’t know.

John settled in his chair, laptop resting on his legs as he replied to the email his sister had sent him. Though his mind wasn’t on the words he was typing to Harry, but on Sherlock.

It wasn’t hard to see that he wasn’t the same man that he met, there was no way Sherlock would return back to who he used to be completely. He had given John a few bits and pieces, no more than before, but still more than he had. He just wished Sherlock would understand that no matter what, he wouldn’t leave, that John didn’t think any less of him, and that John would be there with him, for him, until the end of the line.

 

Sherlock solved two of the e-mail cases in under 10 minutes. The first one was a typical love affair, involving two men, and one woman who was the sender of the e-mail, who’ve claimed that she never cheated on her husband. Obvious really, as long as you considered that the wife’s husband could be gay or bisexual. The second case was about a revenge plot, equally plebeian in its simplicity.

He continued on to the next case. A sailor. Married. Lovely wife but seems to be hiding something. No signs of infidelity. No money or possessions missing—

Suddenly, his phone buzzed in silence. A message. From Mycroft. His brows furrowed at the name and discarded his phone onto the bed, not wanting to read the message. He resumed reading the email.

His phone buzzed once again. And one more time after that.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and eventually picked up his phone.

_MI6 have come up with a water-tight cover story. Whatever is left of the terrorist network will not be able to breach the security of the government any longer. - MH_

_The situation is under control now. You did what you had to do. - MH_

_Brother dear, are you alright? - MH_

Sherlock turned off his phone and shoved it deep into his pockets. His teeth clenched, biting back the agitation building in him. He stared at the laptop screen, though none of the words registered in his head any longer. All he could think about was how much he had screwed up, how Mycroft must think of him. And how John might change his mind

  
That was the problem with John’s promises. Betrayal is deepest when there is trust. If John knew what he’d done in Serbia, John would hate him. He had no doubt about it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock joins Lestrade on a case while John is still at work.

John stared at the upload screen for his blog, he wanted to make an entry, just something to keep him occupied, but nothing was coming, at least nothing he wanted to share with those who read it. And they certainly weren’t the ones that he would ask for help when it came to this delicate situation.

Sherlock needed help, and he wanted to help him, the way Sherlock had helped him when he had moved in all those years before, but he didn’t know how to go about it, the direct approach was not the best way, at least when he had asked Sherlock about his time away had caused him to go into a panic attack.

There was the option of asking Mycroft, however, John didn’t know how well that would go over and there would be the fact Sherlock might of thought that he was going over his head, though if push came to shove, he would ask Mycroft, and then deal with whatever Sherlock threw at him afterwards.

For the moment he could ask Mrs. Hudson to keep an eye on him while he was at work, just to make sure he was alright and to have her call when he wasn’t, because just like now, Sherlock wouldn’t do it.

John sighed as he closed his laptop and ran his hands over his face, he would see how things went over the next few days and go from there.

 

“Take him to the white room.”

Sherlock looked up.Those voices again. Not English, Serbian. They were talking about him.

The next thing he knew, there were hands grabbing on his shoulders, dragging him away. He tried to fight, thrashing his arms to break free, but his movements were sluggish -  like he was moving in water.

The thugs threw his body into a room. The entire room was white, illuminated in every corner - a far cry from the previous cell they kept him in. It was bright, too bright in fact.

_No. Not this again._

Sherlock quickly turned to make a dash for the door, but it was too late. The door slammed in his face.

_No!!_

A knock on his bedroom door startled him to consciousness. Just a nightmare. He sighed in relief.

“Sherlock, are you awake?” John asked from behind the door. “I’m about to head off to work, if you need anything, I’ve asked Mrs Hudson to help you out.”

Sherlock rubbed his eyes as he glanced towards the door, he could hear the muffled murmurs of someone talking, most probably John.

Moments later, he could hear John's footsteps walking away and down the stairs.

He rubbed his eyes with his fingers and headed to the kitchen where he proceeded to make a cup of tea for himself.

The flat felt so empty without John. He hated whenever John had to work because it left him feeling alone, and suddenly the apartment seemed five times bigger, certainly too big for only one man.

Sherlock took a sip of his tea as his eyes scanned mindlessly around the living area, stopping at the sight of their chairs. And suddenly the memories came flashing back, before the fall, before Serbia, where he and John would sit before a client, and Sherlock would deduce while John would keep notes and occasionally keep Sherlock's manners in check. How John would type on his blog, one finger at a time, while Sherlock roamed the kitchen with science experiments.

But now things were different. There seemed to always be tension in the air. Was it the guilt John felt, the pain from being captured, or something else entirely - whatever it was, it had changed the dynamic of their friendship.

 

John certainly didn’t want to leave for work, he wanted to stay home, look after Sherlock, but that wasn’t an option as he made his way down the stairs. He had asked Mrs. Hudson to keep an eye on him, and to call regardless if she thought something was wrong.

Though lately something always felt wrong, the dynamic between them had changed. It could be felt in the air, now whether it was his own doing, or Sherlock’s, or even both he didn’t know. But he could certainly feel it. And he didn’t particularly like it. He wasn’t sure how to fix it like he had fixed so many things before.

His shift at the surgery had started out slow, patients crawling in and out slowly with nothing more than a cough or a runny nose. It was suppose to keep his mind off of things, off of Sherlock, but for the moment John considered that this was just to make money, to have something in the bank if needed.

The doctor sighed as he leaned back against his chair, running his hands over his face before looking at his watch. Three more hours to go, Sherlock had been alright so far, but there was plenty of time for something to go wrong.

 

The text alert on his phone sounded and Sherlock puts down his violin and bow as he reached to check his messages. Lestrade. Case then.

_Woman dead in broad daylight, in the middle of Hyde park. Many people around but no one heard any signs of struggle, no murder weapon. Coming? - GL_

Sherlock pondered for a moment. John was still in the middle of his shift, unlikely that he could come along.

_On my way. Text me the address. - SH_

With everything that has happened so far, he needed to be away from John for a moment. He has shown John too much of his vulnerabilities already, although in truth he has barely scratched the surface. But he needed to prove to himself that he wasn't broken, that the great man he once was still existed.

When he reached the crime scene, he was greeted by the sight of Donovan, probably assigned to be his personal usher. Great.

"Freak," she acknowledged. "It's been a while."

A 'while' was certainly an understatement. It's been 2 years since he and Donovan have clapped eyes together. Though he has helped Scotland Yard on one other case since his return - Anderson's fake Jack the Ripper mystery - the last time Donovan saw him was during the Hansel and Gretel case, the day before the Fall.

"I won't apologize, you know," she said plainly as she walked him to where the body was. "The kidnapping of the British Ambassador's children. Two years ago. There was enough cause to make you a suspect. I was just doing my job." It seems like she was trying to convince herself more than anyone else.

"Doesn't matter. Just get me to the dead body," he waved it off dismissively.

"Clearly _you_ haven't changed." She muttered to herself.

There was a tinge of bitterness in her remark. Yet ironically, Sherlock saw comfort in her words.

As the body came into view, with forensics crouched down around it, Lestrade gave Sherlock a quick nod as a greeting.

"Body's right here." Lestrade says as Sherlock approaches.

Sherlock looked at Lestrade, eyed on the team of forensics, then shot a look at Lestrade once again, as if commanding the D.I. to dismiss his forensics team.

Lestrade rolled his eyes but obliged anyway. "I want everybody away from the body for ten minutes. Come on, let's go," he commanded, facing the forensics team.

Donovan dismissed herself as well, leaving only Sherlock and Lestrade behind.

"Alright, do your magic," Lestrade said casually as Sherlock got on his knees to analyse the body.

She was female, probably late 20s - that much was obvious even for a goldfish. From head to toe, there were no bruises, no scars, not a single scratch on the body. None of her belongings were stolen. Perhaps poison then.

Sherlock sniffed her open mouth and smelled...nothing? Strange. It wasn't that he couldn't smell anything per say. He did smell something, but he couldn't tell if there was anything beyond the ordinary about it or if that's how corpses smell.

"Anything?" Lestrade inquired.

Sherlock scanned the whole body once more. "Yeah, uhh..."

Why can't he deduce anything from this body? There _has_ to be something he can learn; her hobby, her lifestyle, something!

"Female. Late 20s." He muttered. His hands were trembling slightly.

"Well yeah that's pretty obvious. Anything else?"

Come on, there has to be something. A clue somewhere on the body. The hair. The clothes. The state of her skin. Her belongings. Come on, think!

"Sherlock?"

But he can't find anything. Why can't this damn corpse tell him anything?!

_THINK!!_

As if on cue, Donovan returned just as Sherlock was about to explode. "So, forensics said she died of suffocation."

Something turned inside him.

_Bubbles flew over him. Can't breathe._

"Plastic over her head," she continued.

_Air. He needed air. But hands gripping on his hair held his head down. Submerged in water._

"Couple of minutes was all took."

_His hair was yanked violently, pulling his face out of the water. And then slammed his head back into the water, barely enough time for him to catch a breath._

His gut twisted at the memory.

"Anything new here?" Donovan turned to Sherlock.

She waited for a response but there wasn't any. Then she noticed that his hands were shaking. Almost uncontrollably.

"Sherlock?" She looked up to his face.

He was pale white. His eyes clenched shut, his breathing silent but erratic.

Donovan rested her hand on his shoulder. "Are you ok?"

Sherlock snapped up at the sudden touch and shot her a deathly glare.

But instead of Donovan, what he saw his captor staring back at him. Grinning, laughing at him. The captor gripped his shoulders, hard enough for it to bruise. With his other hand curled into a fist, the Serbian swung his arm, targeting Sherlock's exposed abdomen.

Sherlock pushed the person away, unaware that it was Donovan who he'd just attacked.

Lestrade quickly stretched out his arms to cushion Donovan's fall. "Sherlock, what are you- ?!"

Sherlock's eyes were wild. His shaky hand hovered over his mouth, while the other wrapped around his stomach, as though he needed to protect himself from danger.

As soon as the reality of what he'd done dawned on him, he bolted from the crime scene.

What the fuck just happened? One moment he was in Hyde park with Lestrade and Donovan. And the next he was in a dungeon, alone with his captor who seems to gain pleasure from each grunts and cries that Sherlock let out.

But what infuriated him most was the frustrating reality that his brain didn't seem to function the way that it used to, every inch of the corpse provided him with another dead end rather than a useful clue - not that there was no information to gather but his mind simply went blank. As though suddenly he'd forgotten what tell tale signs to look for, and there was nothing he could deduce.

Once he was far enough, Sherlock stopped at his tracks with panted breath, his hands grabbing his hair, pulling it like a madman until it stung, and finally a pained sob of frustration escaped between his gritted teeth.

He wanted to tear his own head apart, electrocute it, give it a jolt then maybe it would function once more. Because right now, it was worthless.

He needed to be useful. Just one more chance to prove his utility.

Then at the corner of his eyes, he saw the silhouette of a man in a grey hoodie walking pass him, peering at him as the man subtly tilted his head, then hastens his pace, brisk walking further from Sherlock. Sherlock trailed the man's movements as his brain scrambled to recall where he'd seen the hooded man's silhouette before - earlier near the crime scene, there was a man wearing a similar hoodie jogging around that area of the park several times, though so did many other people so there was nothing out of the ordinary about him there.

As the man distanced himself further from Sherlock, his pace quickened and began to run. Instinctively, Sherlock gave chase, following the man through the streets of London, and down an alley road, where the man soon realized that there was no chance of Sherlock losing trail of him. The man kicked down several rubbish bins, but it was barely enough to barricade Sherlock from following him. The distance between the two men quickly shortens and, in his desperation, the suspect turned at a corner, plastered his whole body against the wall, and waited for a chance to ambush the detective.

Within a split second, Sherlock could feel his head exploding, a jolt of excruciating pain as a brick strikes his skull. His head was spinning, his blood trailing down the side of his face. He tried to look up and suddenly there was a metal bar coming at him from the side.

Suddenly he was back in the dark cell, hands chained to the walls, completely immobilized, unable to protect himself from the incoming metal pipe hitting him repeatedly. The attack continued on and on, strike after strike, until he could feel bile rising up to his throat and his whole body was shaking.

But this time he wasn't helpless, this time he could move his arms freely and gain some control. He needed to protect himself. He had to protect himself.

Sherlock ducked and rammed his entire body towards the suspect, sending the man falling backwards. Sherlock stared down with pure rage. Because after all he'd been through in Serbia, hung on chains like an object, treated like a human punching bag, how dare this man ambush him like a coward. No, he didn't deserve this.

Sherlock grabbed hold of a loose brick from the floor, the same one that has caused his bloodied head, raised his hand up to the sky, and slammed the brick onto the assailant's skull with full force.

 

Lestrade was on his feet, running around the London street, looking for his consulting detective as Donovan trailed behind him. Sherlock was strangely erratic, trembling hands, seeming to be unable to deduce, and the most concerning issue was his sudden burst of violence, something so uncharacteristic of him. Lestrade couldn't tell what was wrong with Sherlock but he knew a desperate, panicked man when he saw one. Murder suspects, criminals, and civilians all the same - once they got desperate, there was no telling what they could do.

He and Donovan split up, with Lestrade continuing his search down one alley and Donovan another. As he ran down the alley, he hears the faint murmurs of grunting and shouting in the distance. He followed the sound, and as he got closer he could hear the repeated thud of a heavy object - something hard like a rock or brick - bashing on a human body. Yet strangely enough, there was no sound or grunts or cry from the victim.

Lestrade could feel his stomach sinking, his mind feeding him with horrific images of Sherlock, blood around his face, already unconscious and helpless to defend himself from the attacks. Lestrade pressed his body against the wall, cocking his gun, and turned the corner, revealing himself with his gun raised in the air.

As soon as he saw the sight before him, his eyes widen in disbelief. Sherlock was the attacker, and his victim was completely unconscious. Blood was everywhere on the victim's face, his cheeks swollen into purple, and the top of his head was bashed in, nearly revealing his brain. The man was barely clinging on to life, but Sherlock continued his rain of attacks, the brick on his hands painted in dark red. The look on Sherlock's eyes was incomprehensible, engulfed with pure rage, as though he had lost sense of reality.

"Sherlock stop!" Lestrade put his gun back and gripped Sherlock by the shoulders.

Sherlock elbowed aimlessly, hitting Lestrade's chin which was enough to loosen the grip around his shoulders, and continued his attack on the unconscious man. Lestrade grabbed his right hand and twisted it, causing the brick to fall off his grip and onto the floor.

Both men struggled for a while but finally Lestrade managed to handcuff the consulting detective. Sherlock was panting heavily, his eyes wild but also lost. He seemed like a child, unable to tell what he'd done wrong and only doing the first thing that came to his mind. He looked at the hooded man, his face destroyed beyond comprehension and head glistening from the blood. Sherlock gasped a sob, tears welling up in his eyes.

"I didn't do anything wrong." His voice was shaky and weak. "I did what I had to do. I... I haven't done anything wrong."

Lestrade stared at him from behind, speechless and dumbfounded by what he'd seen. He calls for Donovan and back up, then took out his phone.

  
_John, come down to the station. This is urgent. It's about Sherlock. - GL_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brain differences have been found in those suffering from PTSD. These include a smaller sized hippocampus, a brain structure responsible for processing memories and learning; an over reactive amygdala, a structure involved in the body’s fear reactions; and an under reactive prefrontal cortex, a brain area that inhibits amygdala activation. It is believed that these differences help to explain why the trauma memories of individuals with PTSD are so intrusive, and are experienced so intensely, sometimes feeling as if the trauma were happening again. These neurobiological differences are also thought to account for the excessive fear reactions that are set off very easily by a host of things experienced that are not really dangerous.
> 
> \- Prepared by Veterans Healthcare Administration, National Center for PTSD


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is arrested and detained in New Scotland Yard.

His phone vibrated violently against the desks wooden surface as John made out a prescription for his patient. His heart began to pound against his rib cage as he  looked up and saw the illuminated screen.

New Message from Greg

He paused for a moment, a thousand reasons why Greg would be text him at this time were coursing through his head. None of them where good. quickly he finished writing out the medications Ms. Russell needed for his cold and sent her on her way.

John snatched up his phone quickly and opened the message, his heart falling into his stomach as he read over his friend’s words.

_John, come down to the station. This is urgent. It’s about Sherlock. - GL_

‘I should have stayed home’ he thought as he stood from his desk, paging the receptionist to tel her tat he was no longer accepting patient because something urgent came up and he was needed at home. It wasn’t the exact truth, but it was better than saying he had to go down to New Scotland Yard.

Once he had gathered up his coat and keys, he was out the door, nodding goodbye to the woman who worked behind the front desk, ignoring the looks of disgruntled patients as he went.

John managed to hail a cab on his first attempted and after telling the driver to head to the police station he leaned back into the seat, allowing his mind to wander. His imagination creating all of these different scenarios that ended with Sherlock either in a black canvas body bag or severely injured because someone broke into the flat and caught him off guard. He secretly hoped that wasn’t the case.

His stomach churned uncomfortably at the thought that Sherlock had gotten hurt even worse then he currently was and he pushed the idea away before he got sick in the back of the cab.

The cab ride seemed to take longer than he remembered and it just allowed for the anxiety and general uneasiness that he felt to build, creating a bubble in the middle of his chest that made it difficult for him to breathe. However, the moment the taxi stopped in front of the station, John had already shoved the fair into the rivers hands and was already out of the door.

A sense of foreboding washed over him the moment he stepped into NSY, everyone went silent as their eyes fell upon him. It did nothing to ease the tension in his chest as he made his way up to Greg’s office.

If he thought that the first floor was bad, the floor that Greg and his officers calls home is worse. He is welcomed to a loud uproar, with the word freak meeting his ears more than once before they know he is there and then it goes dead silent, no one will look at him, not even Sally who instead looks shocked and sick and then John doesn’t know what to expect as he steps into Greg’s office, finding the Silver haired man behind his desk, face in his hands.

The DI only looks up once John has closed the door, he looks tired, weary, shocked and John thinks his chest is going to explode.

“I-I came as fast as I could.” He says, his voice breaking from the anxiety. “What happened? Where is Sherlock?”

“That is what I need to talk to you about John.” Greg says with a sigh as he leans back into his chair. “Sherlock’s been arrested, for attempted murder.”

“What?” John asked disbelief filled his voice. “Sherlock? No…”

“John, I saw him with my own eyes bashing in some poor bloke’s head with a brick.” Greg voiced.

“I want to see him. I want to see him now and I want to know what happened.” John replied a minute later. No this wasn’t right, was it? It couldn’t be right. He was waiting for Greg to say to was a joke, it had to be. Right?

John turned to the door, his hands reached out for the door knob desperate to see his flatmate, but Lestrade quickly placed himself between the door, his hand pushing firmly on John's shoulder.

"John, John, calm down first, alright?" He gave John an affirming look and tilted his head towards the chair, hinting for John to go back and take a seat once more.

John obliged.

"Look I understand that you don't believe me, even I don't believe it. But I did see it John," Lestrade started.

"What happened?" There was an edge in John's voice.

"Sherlock, he..." Lestrade sighed, reluctant to say aloud the horrific things that his friend had done. "He seemed strange at first, very out of character. I had invited him to a crime scene like usual, but then he couldn't seem to deduce anything from the body and he just suddenly bolted. Even pushed down Donovan before running off to god knows where. We searched for him and when I finally found him, he was..."

"The way he looked at the man, John," Lestrade looked up."He looked wild, like he was determined to kill this man. And he just kept on bashing this bloke's head with a brick. By the time I got there, the bloke was already unconscious. But Sherlock, he just went on and on." Lestrade's voice quiver slightly.

"I tried to calm him down but he was still so aggressive. Like he could see that it was me, but he didn't realize that it was me." Lestrade pinches the bridge of his nose and sighed, as if exhausted.

"If I had reached just a few seconds later, I think Sherlock would've killed him John." He looked up, his expression dead serious. "Right now this man is in A&E, he's skull is fractured. Severely. He's barely clinging on to life. And Sherlock did that to him, John."

He saw John's throat swallow.

"And I don't even know why he did this. I mean, why this man? Why was Sherlock so violent?" Lestrade wondered.

"What's happened to him John?"

John sighed as he rested his head in his hands before leaning back against the hard surface of the chair.

“I-” he started as his hands fell away from his face. He didn’t know where to start, they had never openly discussed things that were wrong with Sherlock, however this was different, Sherlock had nearly bashed some poor bloke’s head in. This was the exception of course, Greg had to know.

“He came back different, but you know that already, I don’t know exactly what he did when he was gone, he wouldn’t tell me, I don’t think I would have even known if they got their hands on him if I didn’t come home early and see the wounds before he slammed the door in my face. My guess is that they had up up until he was brought home, but even then I don’t know what they did to him, he refused to let me help him.”

John shifted and rested his hand on his lap, looking at a spot on Greg’s desk instead of at Greg himself.

“When I was still in the Army, before I was discharged, there were other soldiers In the hospital with me that had the same symptoms that Sherlock has been displaying: Nightmares, flashbacks, insomnia, panic attacks, and in some cases outbursts of violence all of which Point to PTSD, though he hasn’t actually been diagnosed. But it is the result of whatever trauma he endured while he was away, either by what he had to do or by what he endured by their hands.”

He paused for a moment and finally looked at Greg’s face.

“I know we hardly get to see that side of Sherlock, the one that lashes out, the last time was when he threw the CIA agent out the window more than once. But something triggered his reaction Greg, something happened before you got there and it set him off even more so than he may have already been from the crime scene, But I can’t tell you any more than that, not until I see him.”

Lestrade looked at him and nodded.

He stood up and led the way into the interrogation room, where Sherlock waited, hands handcuffed, his head looking down. He looked miserable.

Before John opened the door, Lestrade pulled him to say some final words. “As much as I hated it, we had no choice but to cuff him. Right now, we just don’t know if he’ll snap again and get violent. I’m so sorry, John.”

“And John–” Lestrade added. “Be gentle with him.”

Of course he knew that John would never hurt Sherlock. But looking at the state Sherlock was in, he just had to say it.

John took a deep breath and entered the interrogation room, closing the door softly behind him as if not to startle the man at the table.

“Sherlock.” John said softly as he walked further into the room. He took in his friends appearance as he approached, his hair somewhat matted at the side of his head with looked to be blood, something Greg didn’t mention before. Something that he may not have noticed as he cuffed the younger man.

He stopped close enough to reach out and touch Sherlock, but still far enough to make it to the door if Sherlock snapped, but he didn’t think it would happen.

“Sherlock, did someone hurt you today? After you went to help Greg?”

Sherlock didn’t move for a moment before he lifted his head to look at the doctor.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth, holding down his emotions as much as he could. “It was self-defence. I did what I had to do!”

“Sherlock you bashed his head in, they won’t see it as self defence. They see it as attempted murder.” John replied as he watched Sherlock’s demeanour and his folded his arms. “And as much as you hate it, you need to tell me what happened, everything, I can’t help you otherwise, and you can’t say you don’t need it, not this time.”

“He attacked me first! What do you expect me to do, stand there and let him beat me?!” Sherlock hissed. “This time I could protect myself, so I did. The man was murder suspect anyway, he killed people, he suffocated that girl in cold blood, what does it matter if he’s dead–”

Sherlock quickly shuts his mouth, immediately regretting what he’d just said.

“What does it matter? Jesus Sherlock. He isn’t one of the bastards that did hell knows what to you! He’s some murder suspect that is so close to dying they will book you on murder charges.” John stated “What would I expect you to do? I don’t know Sherlock, a number of things, But I can’t really tell you, because i wasn’t there.”

“Look, I want to help you, and that is the only thing I have wanted to do since I saw your back, but I can’t help you if you keep shutting me out for one reason or another.” John’s voice was low and soft. “Before something like this happens to someone you know.”

“Is that what you think, John? That I would hurt you, kill you, is that it?” Sherlock sneered. “You think that because I’ve been captured in Serbia, suddenly all my actions are a result of that, that I’ve lost my mind?”

John stared at him, his expression a mixture of fear and pity. And Sherlock hated it, he hated everything about it. Because how dare Lestrade handcuff to the table him like a criminal, despite everything he’d done for the Yard. And how dare John accuse him of such a ludicrous crime, and then belittle him with pitiful looks.

“I DON’T NEED YOUR HELP, JOHN! I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG!!” Sherlock tugged violently on his handcuffs, causing the table to jerk, and John to flinch. “That man is a murderer! And I took him down when the Yarders are too stupid and incompetent to do their job properly! This is what I do! This is what I’ve always done!”

“Right, because you have never needed my help, so why should it start now?” he asked as he took a step back. “And Sherlock I am not thinking about what you would do to me, I could care less. I am talking about Molly or Greg or Mrs. Hudson because they caught you off guard and the same fucking thing happens.” John replied, he squared his shoulders and looked at his friend.

“Right, of course, this is what you have always done, taken charge, but you know what you crossed the line. You don’t just haul off and nearly fucking kill people and that is what you damn near did, you go and you solve murders and crimes and makes the streets safe, not to stoop so low as to hurt people. But I can’t even get you to understand that what you did wasn’t okay because he wasn’t whoever you thought he was.”

“You are so defensive, so hell bent on proving that there is nothing wrong with you that you don’t even see what you are doing, that you are shoving everyone away, insisting that you are fine.”

“I AM fine!” Sherlock stood up abruptly, his chair toppling backwards. “The scars you saw on my back are JUST scars, John! There is nothing wrong with me, do you understand?!”

His chest heaved rapidly, unable to hide the overwhelming anger raging within him.

John took a step back as the chair toppled over and he could hear footsteps in the hallway and he wondered if it was Greg coming to yank him out before Sherlock went after him.

“You aren’t fine, you’re angry.” John replied as he threw a glance to the door. “And I don’t know who you are trying to convince more, me or you. And if you don’t realize it, they will keep you here, and I’ll have to call Mycroft, because they won’t let you go with me. Do you understand?”

Fear. Sherlock saw it in John’s eyes, John was scared of him. The way John stepped back as though Sherlock was some kind of wild animal only aggravated him further. He wanted to reach John and shake him, until John could see that there was nothing wrong with him, and everything was just an unfortunate misunderstanding.

Because if even John didn’t believe him - John who was his one and only friend - then who would. He needed John to understand, he needed to get closer to John, to hold him until he listens. But the chains between his cuffed hands were bolted to the table, he couldn’t move anywhere.

He bit down his anger and remained silent, keeping his sight focused on the floor.

John waited for Sherlock to lash out again, but when he remained silent, he felt some tension leave his shoulders and he took a few steps forward until there was just a few inches between him and the table.

Sherlock’s chest was still heaving with anger, he was aggravated and none of this was helping, it wasn’t getting them anywhere other than closer to Greg coming through that door to tell him his time with Sherlock was enough. He was going to have to do this another way then. He took a deep breath before he spoke.

“Look we will get everything figured out alright?” John asked “If you didn’t do anything wrong then there is nothing to worry about, and if you are fine, then there is nothing to worry about there either but before we go any further, you need to calm down and then you can explain it to me so I understand because apparently I’m not.”

Hearing John acknowledge the possibility that he could be innocent finally calmed him down. His breathing eased as he turned up his head hesitantly, meeting with John’s eyes. John could see the wetness in his eyes.

“I’ve told you what happened John,” his voice cracking, he sounded defeated. “What else do I have to do to make you believe me?”

John looked at Sherlock, hearing the way his voice cracked made his chest hurt. He could see the fear in Sherlock. He gave Sherlock’s form a once over before speaking.

“He was beating you yeah? That’s how you got the wound on your head?” John asked, he could see the wound better from here. “Tell me, what did he use and may I look at it? Just the one spot on your head? I don’t think anyone else did. That’s all I’ll need.”

Well it would be all he needed to prove to Greg that someone had hit him in that alley way, and while it didn’t get him off whatever charges they had for him, it gave his word something to stand on, something Mycroft could work with.

Sherlock wordlessly nodded and closed his eyes as John moved closer to him. He could feel John’s hand gently running through his hair, careful not to press on the injury. There was still a slight bump, but it has been properly treated when the paramedics came, at the same time the other man was being strapped to the stretcher.

“He hit me with a brick first. On my head,” Sherlock explained, he seemed timid and submissive now under John’s touch. “And then I heard him drop the brick, picked up a metal bar from the rubble, and he was about to hit me with it.”

Sherlock swallowed his breath.

“That’s when I fought back.” The trepidation in his voice nearly broke John’s heart. “I pushed him down. And then I… I picked up the brick. And I hit him.”

John knew that Sherlock’s self defense wasn’t even that, it wouldn’t even stand up in court, but he didn’t say a word after Sherlock spoke, he was calm now and he wanted to keep him that way.

“Took by surprise then?” He asked his eyes flicking towards the one way mirror Greg was undoubtedly standing behind, recording the conversation they were having to present to Mycroft later. “He must have, by the angle of the blow.” He added on after a moment, and Sherlock nodded silently.

There was nothing more John wanted to do was to just pull Sherlock into his arms and make this all go away, but there was nothing he could do, other than offer his support and show his belief in Sherlock for no other reason than to keep him calm.

“I’ll go talk to Greg and see what can be done about getting you out of here alright?” He asked “Maybe if we are lucky we can get you out of here within the hour.” Though that was unlikely, Sherlock still had to be processed and be put up for bond, because while he truly didn’t think he did anything wrong, because maybe he had only realized he hit him once instead of the numerous times he had, in the eyes of everyone else he had nearly killed a man.

When John finally left the room, Sherlock let out a shaky breath.

_He isn’t one of the bastards that did hell knows what to you! He’s some murder suspect that is so close to dying they will book you on murder charges._

Sherlock closed his eyes.

_You are so defensive, so hell bent on proving that there is nothing wrong with you that you don’t even see what you are doing, that you are shoving everyone away, insisting that you are fine._

When he opened his eyes once again, he saw his hands trembling in the handcuffs. He clamped his hands, rubbing his thumb over his other hand to calm himself down. His heart was beating in his chest.

‘What have you done?’ He thought to himself.

A part of him wishes that his hands were not chained down, that way he could slide a blade along his hand, following the line of vein, much more effective that way. Just one little slit. And it’s all over.

No attempted murder charge. No more of John asking him difficult questions. No more of anything.

And finally - _finally_ \- he could have control of his mind again. Even if it was just for a few seconds. Before the darkness takes him.

Just a little nick.

 

“Greg.”

“John,” Lestrade looked up, his arms akimbo. “So, how is he? I heard everything but...you’d know him better, I suppose. Is there anything I should know about?”

"When it comes down to it, he’s afraid.” John answered. “I don’t think he actually knows how many times he hit the man, he just knows the man attacked him and he defended himself, and after whatever happened, that was just first instinct.”

John turned slightly to look at Sherlock through the glass, his shoulders hunched as he stared down at his hands.

“I don’t think holding him would do much good Greg, keeping him locked up is the last thing he needs and the last thing you want.”

"What are you suggesting John?” Lestrade asked. “I can’t just let him go, there is no way I can, even if I wanted to, they will expect me to press charges.” Then the Detective Inspector paused for a moment. “I think it’s about time we called Mycroft. He has to know about this anyway, but he can certainly make sure Sherlock doesn’t see the inside of a holding cell or any cell if we are lucky.”

"Sherlock won’t like it.” John commented and Greg shook his head slightly.

“I think at the moment I am a little beyond what Sherlock won’t like.” Greg replied. “Not right now anyway, this is for his own good.”

John turned his head to look at Sherlock once again, the worry evident in his expression. John looked so much older.

"Be honest with me John." Lestrade inquired, feeling concern for Sherlock as well. "He's never been like this before. Even after his return, on the Jack the Ripper case, you weren't there but Molly was, he seemed to be just fine for the most part. So what changed?"

Sending Sherlock to his big brother would certainly take the responsibility off the DI's shoulder, but as his friend, Lestrade felt like he needed to know as well.

"What happened to him?"

John thought for a moment before turning to look at Greg. “He was tortured Greg, to the extent I still have no idea. But this didn’t just show up over night, he would have been this way when he returned, we just didn’t notice it. Whatever seemed different when you first saw him again may have been a sign of this. It just wasn’t that bad.”

He exhaled as he moved to rub the back of his neck, his eyes tearing away from Greg’s face to look at the DI’s crossed arms instead.

“I think this is my fault…I saw the scars on his back and I started to ask questions. If I would have left well enough alone he wouldn’t have gone out to prove that he was fine, this never would have happened.”

Lestrade placed his hand on John's shoulder and gave him a firm squeeze. "Don't blame this on yourself John, there's no way you could've known."

But even beneath his calm, professional facade, Lestrade was a whirlwind of panicked storm underneath. _Torture_. That single word sent shivers down his spine.

Sherlock was a detective, a puzzle solver, even against the darkest kinds of criminals, he’ll always find a way out using that big brain of his. And to think that Sherlock would end up in such a gruesome scenario, tortured till his mind was shattered into broken pieces, seemed impossible to believe.

His thoughts were interrupted as Donovan called for his attention, her heels making tapping noises for each step she took. Her strut was firm, hard, nervous almost, and the expression on her face encompassed the same uneasy look.

"Greg." Her voice was rigid. "I just received a call from the hospital. That bloke, Jeremy Wilson - the one Sherlock assaulted -"

Lestrade flinched at her words, hating the reminder that the person he considers his friend had done such a violent, heinous act, no matter how much he wishes it was untrue.

"The damage to his brain was too severe." She tried to keep her voice even.

Her eyes shifted to John. And whether it was fear, panic, pity, or a mixture of it all, her voice cracked when she had to look at John in the eye and tell him.

"He's dead. Sherlock killed him."

In a matter of seconds, John felt as if the rug had been ripped out from under his feet and the world was caving in on him. He felt nauseous, sick, and was unable to find a way to sing together a few words to make a coherent sentence.

“Shit.” He managed to say, the word coming out whispered as if his breath forced it from his lips. The doctor tore his eyes away from Sally to look at Sherlock in the next room for a moment. He had no idea what they were about to hit him with, a murder charge, one that could carry a 25 to life sentence.

John doubted he would last 25 hours in another cell let alone 25 years.

“If you excuse me I need to make a phone call…" He said to both of them and no one. There was no time to go and tell Sherlock that they were in over their heads. That the ‘queen’ was going to be called.

He made his way around Sally, refusing to look her as he passed, digging out his phone as he got out into the hallway, searching through his contacts until he came across to the one he needed.

He counted the number of rings it took for the eldest Holmes to answer. One. Two. Three.

“Mycroft.” He said, not giving the other man a time to greet him. “There’s been an incident with Sherlock. It can’t wait.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft comes down and talks to Sherlock, revealing some more of what actually happened during Sherlock's time away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Warning for brief descriptions of rape and torture

Sherlock sat in the interrogation room, waiting for what seemed like hours, back pressed against the metal chair. The sudden click from the door startled him and his eyes widen upon seeing his elder brother enter.

Sherlock ducked his head, his cheeks reddened in shame. He kept his gaze on the dried ink stain on the table. "Don't."

"I haven't said anything." Mycroft took the seat opposite.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to meet eyes with his brother.

"I came for your rescue, Sherlock, not to pass on petty judgments." Mycroft affirmed, but Sherlock only scoffed blankly in response.

“Don’t you have a country to invade, or a cake to eat?”

"I worry about you, Sherlock. Constantly. And even more so now that you've-"

"What?" Sherlock interjected. "Now that I've embarrassed you? Bring down your posh, pristine image? The last thing I need is you patronizing me." Sherlock hissed, but Mycroft looked back at him with a look of genuine guilt, a pained expression. Within a split second though the cold, icy exterior returned, making that moment of emotional vulnerability seem like a hallucination.

"I sincerely apologize," Mycroft announced, his voice sounded detached, as if to hide any evidence of sentiment. "The gravity of that mission was far too much for you to handle alone. I miscalculated."

"John would kill you if he heard."

"I should expect so."

The edge of Sherlock's lips tugged in a smile. But it soon fades. Then the silence sets in.

"I have no desire to leave you incarcerated in prison. But understand that my position in the government does not give me a free pass from the law." Mycroft looked down to Sherlock's shackled hands.

"You still have to be punished." Sherlock felt gutted.

"For God's sake, this is ridiculous."

Mycroft ignored his taunt. "One alternative, which I wish you to decline, is another MI6 mission. To east Asia."

"That won't happen. Obviously." And Mycroft too smirked at the ridiculous notion of sending his clearly traumatized brother to another death mission.

"Next." Sherlock prompted.

"House arrest. You will not be allowed to leave the confines of 221b. Cameras will be installed, your movements monitored at all times. All your text messages, phone calls, and any form of communication with the outside world will be under constant supervision."

Sherlock bit his lip. The idea of being constantly scrutinized, especially when he feels so on the edge lately, was suffocating, but certainly better than the first alternative. "Fine. How long?"

"That rather depends."

"On?"

Mycroft sighed, resting his hands on his lap, his fingers interlocked.

"That day when I came to your rescue," Mycroft started. "You asked me this question: 'where is Mycroft? Where is my brother?' You were captured barely a year and yet you couldn't even recognize your own brother's face when I was right there, getting you out."

Sherlock swallowed.

"But you weren't hallucinating. I'd known if you had, there would be clear signs. You, however, were completely lucid."

"I was tired," Sherlock mumbled under his breath, not knowing what to say.

"And was it also fatigue that made you reveal all the government secrets you knew to the terrorists that captured you?" Mycroft snapped. "You told them everything  you knew - confidential information, intelligence, and you didn’t stop there, you even managed to endanger our parents as well, you revealed to terrorists the names of our father and mother, where they lived, where they work! Even details of John Watson’s personal life, and his sister as well! You are putting everyone's life at risk, Sherlock, and I am unable to understand why you would voluntarily do such treacherous acts, unless I know the full extent of what they've done to you."

"Shut up! Shut up!" Sherlock bellowed, the metal clanged loudly as he tugged violently at the chains connecting his two hands. "Is that all you came here for? Tell me what a failure I am, how weak I am? Well congratulations, you've proven your point!" He jerked violently at his shackled hands, revealing the blood smearing on his wrists where the handcuff encircled his skin. "I'm perfectly aware of it! I don't need your fake sympathy, go lock me up! That's what you really want isn't it, so I will stop being a disappointment to you? So please just....just..."

"Stop reminding me." His voice was weak, raspy, and his eyes were red. As though tears were about to fall. But he couldn't let Mycroft see him cry.

Because that would be a sign of weakness.

"Sherlock," Mycroft began slowly. "You may be reckless at times, but I know you are no traitor. I never blamed you. The information slippage was a necessary bargain for your survival, that much I do, in fact, understand. And the consequence of that slip-up has been dealt with, as I've mentioned before in the text message. Our parents are safe, and dissemination of sensitive information has stopped since the arrest of all the terrorist organization members, as far as we are aware of. What I am worried about, dear brother, is you."

Mycroft leaned in dangerously, his expression taking on a deadlier, serious tone, demanding answers. "What did they do to you when they captured you?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, but only a shuddered breath escaped. He wanted to say it, he needed to say it, shed off the mental burden even if just a little. But to do that he would have to expose all the degrading things they made him do, the inhumane ways they treated him.

How for the first five months of captivity, he was stripped down, his body naked until the waistline, arms tied up in chains, hung like a puppet doll. Beaten if he refused to answer his captor's questions, and punched across the face if his answer was deemed unsatisfactory.

How one day he would be awoken by a sudden jolt of pain throughout his scalp as the Serbian yanked his head up, fingers digging and pulling at his hair until his throat was bare and straining. And on the next, his back would be torn open by the strike of a whip.

And how the captors would keep him starved for days, and then throw a disgusting pile of leftovers mixed with dirt and spit onto the floor near his feet, where they would loosen his taut chains, allowing just enough length for him to kneel and reach his meal face first, his arms pulled back by the chains.

The food was vile, by any standard it could hardly be classified as 'food'. Yet Sherlock still ate it. Because he was so hungry, his body craved food, anything to fill his stomach, even if it was basically dog food.

And that was exactly what he was. A dog. A bitch.

His captors would keep him shackled twenty-four-seven, then watch him struggle and beg when his bladder had reached its limit. And once he could no longer hold on, he would urinate on himself, yellow liquid dripping down the corner of his trousers.

Or the fact that his first sexual experience was shared with his captor. Helpless underneath his rapist’s ruthless grip, sodomizing him, fucking him. His head would be yanked up by the hair as his captor got close, shoving him harder and harder, snapping him in two, the grunts and moans overlapping the squelching of their meeting flesh, until the man above him spasms and semen filled his arse.

And how he even, once, traded oral sex in exchange for sleep. On his knees, hands tied behind his back, Sherlock let his captor use his mouth, hands tangled in his hair, holding him in place while the Serbian thrusts his cock into him, deeper and deeper until it hits the back of his throat, until he couldn’t breathe, until his eyes water. Because he hadn’t been allowed to sleep for days. And by that point, all really wanted to do, what he so desperately needed - was sleep.

No, there was no way he could tell anyone that. The prospect of telling another human being the things he went through, the things he let them do to him - and even more so when that person is Mycroft - was far too mortifying.

If he wanted to save his dignity, or whatever was left of it, he couldn't let anyone know.

"Just beatings. That's all.”

Mycroft could see through Sherlock's emotions. Sherlock's posture, downcast eyes, scarlet cheeks. Sherlock was ashamed. Of being a torture victim? Of telling Mycroft? And to be honest, he didn't know which terrified him more - the knowledge that his baby brother have suffered in ways no human should yet not knowing exactly the ruthlessness of torture Sherlock had to endure - or the fact that his very existence was aggravating Sherlock's fear and shame.

Mycroft stood up, his fingers fiddling with the umbrella. "Your torturer, we have him under capture. The death penalty awaits him but I'm more than willing to let him live."

Sherlock felt his stomach sink. "Why," he wanted to ask but the only sound that came was a choked sob.

"Because," Mycroft said evenly while straightening his suit.  "I don't know the specifics but I'm aware of the unimaginable things he'd done to you. And as Newton's third law of motion dictates: every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Metaphorically speaking," he tilted his head towards his baby brother. "Ask, and it shall be given."

And finally Sherlock understood. That this was Mycroft's way of apologizing, to return the favour, his way of trying to set things right with his brother, unethical as it was.

The tables have turned, Sherlock thought.

"Torture him." Sherlock murmured. "Humiliate him. Beat him. Starve him. Make him suffer." His voice low and dangerous.

At the back of his mind, he knew how perversely wrong it was. To want his captor go through the same pain and psychological torture he did. But he needed to know that his captor would suffer as much as he did, if not more.

It was only fair. He deserved it.

"Understood." Mycroft noted and proceeded to exit, waving his hand to signal the guards to uncuff Sherlock.

Having the metal removed made his hand feel so light. Sherlock rubbed his hand against his aching wrist and sighed in relief. Completely unaware that John had watched and heard everything from behind the two-way mirror. And had learned that Sherlock - his best friend and the person he trusted most - had potentially put his sister’s life in the crossfire.

 


	7. Chapter 7

The chair that had been closest to John slid across the floor before toppling over onto its side in a crash and that was all he could manage other than his heaving chest and curled fists as he stared down to the ground. His best friend had sold them out, he had told the people that worked for Moriarty sensitive information not only about his own family, but about John and his own sister as well and that was infuriating and sickening, leaving the doctor at a loss.

What was he supposed to do now?  Of course he and Harry butted heads when it came to some things, but he always looked out for her, that was what older brother’s were supposed to do, But how was he going to protect her from this? How was he supposed to tell her that Some demented terrorist organization that had been formed and run by some psychopath that had somehow managed to Break Sherlock may be coming after her because she was more or less guilty by association.

 _They managed to break Sherlock_.

His anger deflated and guilt replaced the feeling in his chest as he uncurled his hands and looked up through the mirror once more to stare at his friend. Sherlock looked nothing like himself now, at least not the self John remembered. He looked tired, worn down with somewhat hunched shoulders and red eyes and the look of someone still hiding something and John found it hard to even be upset with him.

Instead he was upset with the people who had done this to him, who had him and tortured him to the point he thought it was best to tell them what they wanted to know. And if Mycroft wasn’t already doing to do his worst to the man who had tortured Sherlock, he might as well have volunteered to kill him. Anyone who pushed Sherlock past his breaking point deserved it in John’s mind, because the things they would have done to him would have been unimaginable, inhumane.  
John took a deep breath and ran a hand over his face before exiting the observation room, waiting to meet Sherlock and Mycroft as they exited the interrogation room.

The Holmes brothers walked briskly down the hallways of Scotland Yard, Sherlock summoning John to come along without even slowing down his pace.

“Where are we going?”

“Home. I’m on house arrest.” Sherlock looked straight ahead, never making eye contact to John.

“Right,” John exhaled. There was something in his tone though, Sherlock couldn’t quite ascertain. John sounded tired, fatigued, and somehow, in the briefness in the way he said the single syllable word, there was a tinge of ...anger? Guilt?

And in that moment Sherlock momentarily stopped in his tracks.

_Stupid. Stupid! Of course, it was a two-way mirror. John heard everything._

Immediately, it felt like something had lodged in his throat.

John heard everything. John now knows how weak he was, how they succeeded in destroying him, how mentally damaged he was, how he personally requested for a man to be beat up and tortured and humiliated. But the worst was that John now knows he had sold out information about John and his sister to terrorists.

Of course John is angry. He had every right to be.

Sherlock slowly shut his eyes and gave out a long, silent exhale. His fingers began to tremble slightly so he balled his hands into a tight fist. To be honest, he couldn’t read precisely the emotions that underlay John’s tensioned expression. And he wasn’t sure if it was something he would want to know.

So he continued his gait, repressing his worries into a small bottle, and kept it hidden in his mind palace. He placed the bottle inside the top section of a white drawer and pressed lightly to close it shut, the dampened thump of the meeting wood reverberated in the empty room. The drawer sat in the middle, surrounded by four clean white walls, in a spacious room nearly void of any metaphorical furniture. The old school hallway, science archive, childhood memories, even Redbeard no longer existed in his mind palace. It was empty. There was only white.

They barely spoke during the car ride back to Baker Street. Sherlock pressed himself to the far right corner of the car seat, his head turned nearly 90 degrees to face outside the window, staring blankly as the colourful red and golden lights from cars and street lights passes by. He couldn’t bear looking straight at John.

Once they arrived home, Sherlock swiftly removed his scarf and coat and headed straight to his room, never looking back. And John, in turn, had not said anything either, merely standing awkwardly by the kitchen, watching as his flatmate recedes into his bedroom.

Until finally John spoke, just as Sherlock was about to reach for the door knob.

"I don’t think any less of you.” John finally said as he stood in the middle of the sitting room,  by his chair. he had been trying to think of what to say to Sherlock since they had left Scotland yard, but he couldn’t find the words. At least nothing that could accurately express how he was feeling without potentially crossing the line.

John looked up from where he had been staring at his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace to look at Sherlock’s back. He could see the tension in his friend's back and waited for the possible explosion that would be Sherlock telling him he didn’t understand, that he should think less of him for what he had requested of a man or because he had sold them out.

But he did understand, if he had been in Sherlock’s pace he would have done the same thing but he probably wouldn’t have lasted as long, or at least he didn’t think so and he didn’t want to find out.

Sherlock released the door knob and turned slightly, but didn’t speak, not yet at least.

“Are you okay?” John asked  before mentally slapping himself, of course he wasn’t, he had been tortured and was just put under house arrest for murder. “Sorry, stupid question.. I’m not good at this.”

"Are you going to leave?" Sherlock stared blankly at the floor, his voice small almost like a whisper.

"What?"

"Because it's completely understandable if you do. Leave, I mean." Sherlock lifted his head, a silent whimper escaped his breath. As if overwhelmed by what he was about to say next. "You were right from the beginning, I'm not... I'm not okay. The person that you once admired, the 'great brilliant detective in the funny hat', I'm no longer him. The person I am now is this. Pathetic and damaged. And I tried to be okay, John, I did. But I just couldn't."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes, his throat bobbing up and down. "I'm sorry."

John felt something in his chest give way as he heard the way Sherlock’s voice broke and he moved from his spot in the sitting room to the kitchen just beyond the small hallway giving Sherlock enough space while still being close.

“I am not leaving Sherlock, I have no intentions of leaving.” John replied as he focused his attention on Sherlock’ the way his eyes were squeezed shut and how small and defeated he looked, and all John wanted to do was to comfort him. “You don’t have to apologize for not being okay, you aren’t pathetic or damaged, you are still the same person I admired. Things happened and you’re just a bit lost.”

The doctor hesitated a moment before extending his hand, not to reach out and to touch Sherlock unexpectedly, but as a silent offering.

And to John’s surprise - and relief - Sherlock leaned in, submitting to the kindness and warmth offered by his flatmate. He lowered his head to John’s shoulders, holding his breath so John would not hear his stifled breath. He could feel John’s arms wrapping his back, sheltering him, protecting him. A reassurance that he was safe.

For a moment, Sherlock truly felt at home once again, after two long years of suffering and pain, he was finally home again. And John was here. With him, by his side.

Sherlock’s hands hovered over John’s back, hesitant for a moment but eventually accepted the embrace, hugging him tightly, and dug his head deeper into John’s shoulders. The hug was painful, not because it was too tight, but the knowledge that sorrow and despair was what underlay the simple offering of comfort made it achingly bittersweet.

Sherlock made a choked sob, staining John’s shirt with droplets of tears.

Everything felt right. To be warmed and held by John, the gentle caress of John’s fingers through his curls providing him with solace. To be cared for, to be loved. A similar kind of warmth and tenderness Mummy used to give him when he was little - he would come from school with purple bruises on his knees, minor scratches on his palm, and a dishevelled attire, but once he’s at home everything would become fine. Mummy would take him into her loving arms, and Sherlock could just feel it, the genuine kindness and affection. He knew he was safe, protected, loved. It didn’t matter that other students bullied him on a daily basis. Because once he was home, Mummy would make it okay.

And now, John had given him the same unparalleled care. Even though he and John were not affiliated by blood, and they were, in that respect, strangers, but John still always gave.

Sherlock crumpled John’s shirt, as if afraid to let go.

But that moment soon passed. John untangled his arms from Sherlock and suddenly he felt so naked. Unguarded.

“John,” he said in a whimper. “Will you stay with me? Tonight, I mean.”

John furrowed his brows in response, parting his lips in an attempt to say something.

“No, I don’t mean _that_.” Sherlock quickly clarified. He seemed panicked and lost. “I mean… I just meant, in the living room, on the sofa or the couch, if you prefer. I could sleep on the floor, I don’t mind, I’m used to it. I’m just…. I’m afraid of the dreams. And maybe - this is a baseless assumption, I’m aware - but maybe if you were beside me, the dreams…. would be less bad?”

He looked at John with pleading eyes, his gaze like a silent wish for John to fix all his problems. To fix him. He seemed reminiscent of a timid child. Imprisoned by his own mind.

“You aren’t going to sleep on the floor, there is enough room on the sofa for the two of us, I don’t care if you are used to it, you aren’t there anymore.” John added “You’re home, you’re safe.”

He would have agreed regardless at this point, as long as Sherlock got some rest after the last two days, though the way Sherlock looked sealed the deal. He offered Sherlock a soft, reassuring smile, the one that people offer to small, scared children that seemed to ease their nerves.

There was a wave of relief that seemed to wash over Sherlock at John words, and the tension that he didn’t realize that had collected in his body, and he nodded slowly.

“I’ll go get some extra bedding from the linen closet and you go get changed for the night.”

The doctor waited a moment for Sherlock to nod and enter his bedroom for him to slip into the hall and grab a few blankets before going to set up a makeshift bed on the sofa for the two of them.

It took a few moments for John to change into his shirt and sleep pants before going to set up the couch for the both of them to sleep and crawled in, deciding that taking the space near the wall was best, the last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to feel trapped.

When Sherlock returned a few minutes later, he wore an off-white silk pajama with thin blue stripes. John had already made himself comfortable, settling in on the right side of the makeshift bed.

Sherlock carefully lifted the duvet and adjusted himself in, pushing his thin body to the far edge of the bed, facing out the window.

His body seemed so frail from the back. Legs hunched up to occupy minimal space. The yellow lights seeping in from the window illuminating the edges of his lithe frame.

John took in Sherlock’s thin frame as he slipped under the covers to join him, but he didn’t say a word, however he did note on how small the taller man tried to make himself so he didn’t take up that much space.

"John," Sherlock murmured. He turned his head slightly with his back still facing John. "Why are you so kind to me? Even after knowing what I had done, to you and your sister, why are you still so kind to me?"

The question threw John off guard, but there were plenty of things that Sherlock had done lately that did that. He paused and thought a moment looking at the window as he tried to find the answer.

“You’re my best friend, Sherlock.” He said after a few minutes of silence as if it was the only possible answer he could have. “That’s what friends do, they look after one another, care for one another, and are kind to one another, sometimes regardless of the other’s actions.”

“But what good will that do to you?” Sherlock furrowed his brows, this time he turned his body to face his flatmate. “I can’t do the things I used to do. And I can’t understand why - I hate that I don’t know why. But ever since I came back, I just can’t focus. I can’t think straight. Everything is a mess in my head.”

Sherlock shuts his eyelids, his chest rising and falling.

“I’m losing myself and I can’t control it. My usefulness has ended, John, I have no utility to offer you. The thrill of chasing down criminals and solving cases, I can’t… I can’t do that anymore.”

His whole body was shaking. His finger pinches at the edge of the pillow.

“You will get bored. Of me. With the way that I am now. Maybe not yet, but eventually you will.”

“I am not going to get bored of you.” John replied his voice calm, even, and honest as he spoke. “Not now, not ever. I didn’t wish that by some miracle that you were alive to abandon you.”

John pauses, takes a breath, and reaches out to gently lay his hand atop of Sherlock’s trembling one grasping the edge of the pillow.

“We’ll get through this, one way or another, I’ll be here to make sure that you don’t get completely lost. You are still you Sherlock, just some things have changed.”

A rush of anxiety washed over Sherlock. His throat felt sore. “But what if I’m not ‘me’ anymore? And I can never go back, to being ‘me’?”

He blinks back hot tears. “I feel myself get agitated and angry so easily, at anything. I’m afraid of going outside, or meet people - even if they were people I knew well, like Lestrade or Molly. I would lose myself and harm people. Physically. Without thinking twice. I would hit someone over and over and not even realize what I was doing. Just like how I killed Jeremy Wilson.”

Sherlock released a shuddered breath. Tear tracks stained his porcelain cheeks. “John, I’m a murderer.”

John wanted nothing more than to pull Sherlock into his arms as the light from the street lamp illuminated the tears coursing down his face.

“It’ll take some time Sherlock, but you’ll get there, maybe not a hundred percent, but you’ll get there.” He said quietly. “The anger and agitation is another symptom of your PTSD, it shows itself in other ways than just the nightmares and flashbacks.”

“…As for Jeremy Wilson, there were too many factors that were just working against you there.” But that didn’t negate the fact that he had indeed killed someone, a seemingly innocent someone at that, and they still had the consequences to face.

He stopped for a moment and reached out with his hand again, like he did in the hallway, an open invitation once more to his flatmate.

Sherlock looked down at the duvet, his dark curls dishevelled against the pillow, and lips parted slightly as he let out a heavy exhale. He looked confused; conflicted and helpless.  Somehow it made him seem years younger.

John took this chance to wipe away the falling tears then rests his thumb on Sherlock’s cheeks.

And once again Sherlock could feel that warmth. The closeness and safety.

“John,” he whispers, not knowing what words he wanted to say next.

“Sleep.” John soothed. “You’ve had a long day.” He rubs his thumb gently on Sherlock’s soft skin. “You’ll be fine. Everything will be okay.”

The consistency of John’s words lulled him to sleep. An unmistakable reassurance that he was secured and sheltered from harm.

_I’m home._

His breathing starts to regulate. And soon, the depth of slumber took him in.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock awoke the following morning by the soft susurrus of the bustling world. He reached for his phone to check the time - half past eleven. He grabbed the duvet and threw it over him once again, collapsing back down onto the comfort of his own bed.

His eyes still felt heavy, so he proceeded to laze a little while longer. But his plan to stay asleep was cut short by the exuberant thunders of John’s approaching footsteps.

“Sherlock,” John unnecessarily knocked twice on Sherlock’s bedroom door before taking initiative to open it regardless of permission. “You–! Oh god, you won’t believe it!” He chirped amid letting out a hoarse laughter. “Mrs Hudson is getting married!”

Well that immediately woke him up. “What?”

“Yeah, she’s getting married. With Mr. Chatterjee. Said he divorced all his wives, including the ones in Islamabad, because he said the person he truly loved ‘is you, my lovely Martha.’”

God, John’s fake Irish accent was embarrassingly painful to hear. And it sounded even worse when he’s bouncing around, panting in excitement like a puppy.

“And here’s the best part: you, Sherlock Holmes, will the best man. Can you believe that?” John’s eyes even water slightly, not in the sense of profound tears but because the idea of Sherlock as best man was simply funny. A best man speech? Picking out flowers? Help with napkins arrangements? Just the thought of that filled John with glee.

“I thought the groom chooses the best man? Is that not how they do it anymore?”

“Well Mr Chatterjee said Mrs Hudson could have anything she wanted. And she used that chance to pick the best man. And she picked you.”

“Why me?” Sherlock bites.

“Oh I don’t know Sherlock, maybe because she loves you, and sees you as her son, or because she knows you love her too, or-”

“Because it’s funny.” Sherlock finishes, his brows cocked.

“That too. Mostly that, actually.” John teased.

“Isn’t she a little old to be getting married?”

“Love knows no age.” John quoted as he pretended to look far away in false poignancy. “That’s the beautiful thing about love.”

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes.

And suddenly they could hear a faraway high-pitch screeching which turned out to be Mrs Hudson exclaiming “I’m going to get married! I’m going to get married!” over and over from downstairs.

John and Sherlock shared a look and bursts into laughter.

The rest of the day passed by peacefully. Molly came over in the afternoon to congratulate Mrs Hudson, John wrote the hilarity of the day’s events onto his blog, while Sherlock was busy google-searching ‘how to make a good best man’s speech’, and of course, the woman of the day, Mrs Hudson herself, was up and down to feed the boys with an assortment of homemade scones and biscuits while humming and singing love songs in off tune.

When darkness arrived, Sherlock found himself alone in the flat. John and Mrs Hudson had gone out. The empty flat was eerily quiet and dark, filling him with a sense of unease. The floor felt cold beneath his bare feet. Frigid and grimy. His arms felt sore.

Then suddenly his head is twisted up by a hard wrench by the hair. And saw his captor before him.

His stomach convulsed in panic.

“Wake up, sleeping beauty.” That deep and rugged voice sent chills down his spine. “Had a nice dream, did you?”

His hands were shaking involuntarily. He couldn’t breathe, sheer consternation overwhelming him.

“Wha… why am I… h-here…? I was home- I was just at–!”

The Serbian took hold of his jaws, causing Sherlock to shake his head erratically. It only made the grip harder and tighter.

“Shh, shh, shh. Calm down. I was kind enough to give you a good night sleep. But now it’s time to get back to reality.”

The captor leaned closer and licked Sherlock by the ear, and travelled down his exposed throat, kissing his Adam’s apple and sucking and biting on his neck in perverted lust. Arms tied above his head, Sherlock could do nothing but whimper and groan in disgust.

Then the captor reached down for his trousers.

Sherlock stopped breathing; completely mortified.

He could hear his trousers being unzipped. And in one swift move, he was forcefully turned around and pushed onto the wall.

_No._

His trousers and pants were pulled down below his knees.

_Please don’t– !_

The captor gripped him by the hips, holding him in place.

_Stop!!_

_STOP!_

And suddenly Sherlock found himself sweating and panting heavily, with John above him, already in sitting position, looking bewildered and worried in the darkness of the unlit living room. Sherlock could barely see in the darkness of the night if it weren’t for the slight illumination that came from the yellowish-orange glow of street lights.  The doctor’s forehead creased in stress, his eyes still droopy and heavy as if something had disrupted his sleep, and his stubby hand rests on Sherlock’s shoulders. John must have been trying to shake him into consciousness.

So the whole thing was just a dream then?

Sherlock sighed in relief, though his body was still quivering uncontrollably.

“I…I’m sorry, John, for waking you up.” His laboured breathing have eased slightly. Very slightly. “I’m sorry. I-I’m fine, really. I’m so sorry John.”

\----

“There is nothing to be sorry for.” John replied his voice still thick with sleep, though he was now fully awake.”Just focus on breathing alright? I got you, It as just a dream.”

Under his hand, he could feel Sherlock’s body tremble in the aftermath of his dream, his nightmare was a more accurate description when it came down to it. It was Sherlock’s whimpers of his invisible assailant to stop that had woken John from his sleep.

He was familiar with nightmares and how real they would seem until being jolted awake by some unknown force that left you sitting up or lying down covered in sweat and a possible sore, raw throat from crying out.

Though there were implications behind Sherlock’s words, ones that John did not wish to speculate about, not now at least, now he just wanted to make sure that Sherlock was alright.

“You alright?” He asked a few moments later, as Sherlock still panted, but not as heavy as before, and his throat bobbed as he tried to swallow the heavy breaths he was taking.

“No… no, I’m not.” Sherlock shook his head aimlessly. “I don’t know what to do, John, I-I thought that if you were here beside me, that I’d be safe. But I’m still not.” He runs his hands through his curls and pulled aggressively until his scalp stung. Repeatedly, tugging and yanking his hair in a complex concoction of unresolved emotions. It made him seem almost child-like; fragile and helpless.

“I’m home! I’m safe! I should be safe, so why can’t my mind be in peace!” He growled through gritted teeth.

Maybe talking about it would help.” John suggested as he shifted his body slightly, hands reaching out to gently grab Sherlock’s arm in order to stop him from pulling his own hair out.

“Sometimes the weight of holding everything in is just too much, telling someone about it lightens the burden you carry.” At least that was what Ella had told him while he had been going to see her over the last few years.

"You don’t have to tell me anything that you don’t want to or that you feel uncomfortable sharing or you don’t have to tell me at all. I’m just throwing that option out there.”

Sherlock swallowed his throat. "I want to tell you. God, a part of me is dying to tell someone - anyone - just so that I can put this whole thing behind me. I want things to go back to the way they were. But I just can't."

He took in a deep breath and let out a congested wheeze. "What will you think of me if I told you the things I let them do to me? If I hadn't been so weak, if I had been stronger, then maybe things wouldn't be so screwed up as badly as they are now. And I know you said you won't think any less of me, but you don't know yet, that's why you can feel so assured now. But if you knew, once you know-"

His voice threatened to crack. "I'm afraid of what you'll think of me. When you change your mind. And I don't want to see that happen."

John was silent, taking in the way Sherlock spoke and the way he sounded as he looked to the window for a moment, then to the man lying next to him.

“I won’t change my mind.” He reassured. “You may see plenty of things run across my face when you tell me, but it won’t be towards you. You won’t see me change my mind when it comes to you, because that just won’t happen.”

He paused for a moment. “I promise.”

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, his chest heaving rapidly, still unsure if exposing everything that happened to him would be the salvation he needed, or destroy one last thing he could clung on to - their friendship.

John took a firm squeeze on his palm. And somehow, that was just the push he needed.

Sherlock nodded with slight hesitation.

“I…I don’t know how much you know already - maybe Mycroft have already told you some things, or if you’ve deduced it yourself - but during my time away, I was tasked to destroy Moriarty’s network. It wasn’t an easy task, the network was vast, and it stretched everywhere. To terrorist organizations, underground militia, political figures, even reaching corrupt government officials. I managed to succeed for the first 5 months, but-”

He let out a short huff of frustration. “I miscalculated. And I was captured while in Serbia. They locked me up, chained my hands, stripped me and beat me. Day and night. Sometimes they would use nothing but their fists, other times they use a weapon. A bat, metal pipe, crowbar, knout whip - anything they could get their hands on.”

“At one point it got too much for my transport to handle. My attacker, he had whipped me repeatedly for what seemed like hours. I couldn’t even feel my back anymore, he must’ve struck at the same injured spot over and over. Tore deep into my skin. By that time, my legs couldn’t even support the weight of my body anymore, and the only thing that kept me standing was the metal chains that pulled my arms from above. There was just blood, everywhere. And I couldn’t breathe. It felt like my lungs have stopped working. Then, I blacked out."

“When I awoke, I realized they had bandaged me, treated my wounds, but just barely. It was then that I understood the gravity of the information they wanted from me, and for that, it was monumental that they keep me alive. I thought that if I could manipulate them into believing that they needed me much more than I need their mercy, then I could regain some control over the situation. But I was wrong. Dead wrong. It only infuriated them further.”

Sherlock balled his shaking hand into a fist.

“He- my captor, he began to... sexually assault me. The first time it happened, he had blindfolded me. I had no idea what he was going to do next. I thought it was another beating session, that he was going to hit me or whip me. Instead, he grabbed my jaw and pressed his mouth against mine.”

His stomach convulsed in the memory.

“He touched me. Everywhere. Grinding his hips against mine. Licking me. I tried to fight him, used my knees to kick him away, but it was futile. And it only made him angrier.”

“He released the chains pulling on my arms and slammed me face first against the wall. I thought that I could fight him, now that my hands were free, but I had no energy left. He was too strong for me. He held my hands over my head, and with his other hand he… he pulled down my pants. And started raping me.” His voice shattered into a silent whisper.

“It hurts so much.” Sherlock dug his fingers deeper into his palm. Deep enough to bruise. His shoulders were shuddering visibly now. “The pain was nothing I’ve ever felt before. Worse than any beatings he’d given me. Worse than having my skin torched until it melts. Worse than being waterboarded. It made me feel disgusted at myself and I just–”

He breathed rapidly, in bursts of shallow pants.

His head turned slowly to face John, uncertain. Eyes lost and distraught, his entire frame was shaking fervently as cold sweat dampened his pale skin. "Is that what sex is like, John? Does it always hurt this much?”

John wasn’t as prepared as he thought he was going to be when Sherlock began to speak, but the bubbling up on anger and disgust in his chest was not towards the man looking up at him with lost eyes, but towards the monsters that had hurt him in such a way, not once, but most likely multiple times.

He gave Sherlock’s hand another squeeze as he asked the question that made John want nothing more than to confront the man who dare laid his vile hands on his friend and kill him slowly, painfully with his own two hands. Though he doubted Mycroft would allow him to strangle the man he had in custody. And in his opinion, Sherlock’s captor was going to get what he deserved.

Instead of allowing his anger to remain at the surface, he pushed it down, shoved it away before Sherlock mistook it for being towards him instead of the bastard that it was meant for. Instead John turned his focus to Sherlock, and the fact the younger man needed him and his reassurance more than ever.

“No, Sherlock, sex isn’t supposed to be like that.” John said as he shook his head no. “Sex isn’t supposed to hurt, or be painful. It’s not like that at all, it’s supposed to be pleasant and enjoyable, and feel good for the people involved. It isn’t supposed to feel the way you did.”

“How?” Sherlock spat. “How could that possibly be enjoyable or pleasant for anyone? It’s filthy and disgusting and animalistic!”

Despite his accusatory speech, Sherlock appeared, if anything, fearful. Frail and afraid.

He turned his focus to the bed sheets and began picking and pinching on it.

“I never liked sex. Not even in my youth, not even during pubescence. I’ve never had any interest in sex. I don’t know why but I just can’t see people in that way, I never wanted anyone in that way. And I know that other people - normal people - enjoy sex. But I never had any problem. With me not wanting it. It made me feel comfortable, that I never felt pressured to do anything I didn’t want.”

His voice turned into a high-pitched wail; words laden with animosity and hatred. “And then he took it away from me. And it just felt like he destroyed everything that I am, the person I was.”

His mouth parted slightly, as though he was going to say something, but all that came was a wheezing breath. “And I let it happen. I let him rape me. I didn’t fight hard enough. And I let him destroy me.”

John wasn’t sure if his heart could break anymore as Sherlock went on, sounding hollow, broken and most likely on the verge of tears. “You are normal, there are others who have no interest in sex, it doesn’t appeal to them and they don’t like people that way, not liking sex doesn’t make you a freak.” He addressed before pressing on to the next matter.

“Sherlock.” he began as he looked at his friend who was still plucking at the sheet. “You didn’t let anything happen to you. What they did to you wasn’t your fault. You didn’t allow him to rape you; he made that decision on his own.”

It was then decided that if the man that Mycroft had in custody wasn’t dead by the time Mycroft and his men were done with him, John was going to make sure he died as slow and as painful as possible. It was unethical and against the Geneva Convention signed after world war two, but that didn’t matter, not after what they had done to Sherlock.

"He didn’t destroy you Sherlock; you are the same person you were.”

Sherlock's chest tightened in repressed agitation. "Except that I'm not! He tore down everything that made me who I was; he took away things - intangible things - that I can never get back. And it all happened because I was too fucking weak to defend myself!"

A sudden urge for self-aggression arose and his fingers reached to yank each and every strand of his ebony curls.

"I know who I was; I know what I was capable of. The rationality of science, the logic of reasoning, the objectivity of evidence - those were the things that defined me! The things that allowed me to be a consulting detective! The things that enabled me to feel so fucking prideful of myself!"

Heaving breaths constricted his lungs while his eyes pinched hard to hold back any more tears that threatened to fall.

"And now I can't even deduce anything, for God's sake!" The duvet dips by the sudden hostility as Sherlock slammed his fist onto the mattress, startling John in the process.

And that was what Sherlock hated most. Even if the psychological scars felt irreparable to him, no one else would know something was grotesquely wrong with him; as long as he could maintain a front of normality.

Convince others that he was alright and functioning. Deny the horrors of trauma that haunt him.

Keep up the facade for long enough, and then maybe, eventually, he too could believe himself to be perfectly fine.

But instead, how could he when the evidence laid before his eyes had forced him to see the dissenting truth; the unshakable fact that he was damaged and disturbed in every way.

"I killed a person, John." His lower lips trembled in admission. The focus of his eyes narrowed mindlessly on his now outstretched hand; his long, calloused fingers digging deep into the blanket. "I...I had no reason to think that he was the killer. I couldn't gather anything from the corpse's body. No justifiable cause to link him to the crime. And yet I killed him in cold blood."

The edge of his lips twitched into a crooked smile, shaking his head into nothingness as his baritone voice shatters in mock laughter. "What kind of sick person would do that? Who would kill an innocent civilian?"

Exhaustion took over as his entire body suddenly went limp. His shoulder hunched in defeat and arms wrapped around his chest.

_Had I been stronger, had I been smarter, had I had more resilience - I would be exactly the same person that I used to be. And I would be fine._

_It's been months._

_So why can't I simply forget? Why can't I move past this?_

_Why?_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The continuity error at the beginning of the chapter (Sherlock waking up in his bedroom instead of bed-sharing in the living room) was deliberate since it turned out to be a dream after all :)
> 
> And if you see any unintended spelling error, grammar error, or capitalisation error; please do tell us. We have no beta besides ourselves and sometimes we miss things, so we do appreciate if you could politely point it out when you see such errors :)
> 
> Also, thank you all so much for all the support, comments and kudos! We really appreciate it!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Warning for brief self-harm at the end of the chapter

John waited for a few moments before reaching out, his arms encircling Sherlock’s body gently, pulling him close to his chest, but not too close he felt suffocated, though he was more than ready to face the consequences if Sherlock reacted badly.

“Sherlock, it wasn’t your fault,” he said softly. “It wasn’t because you were too weak, or you weren’t something or another. It was an attack on your person, and that is not your fault, not now. Not ever.”

He paused for a moment, searching for words before he continued.

“Yes, you didn’t know if he was related to the case, but when he hit you, he triggered something. But neither of you are at fault for that either. You didn’t know you would be triggered.”

“Things won’t stay like this forever, it’ll take some time before things were like they used to be, and I’ll be here for you. To help. If you’d let me.”

To be enveloped by John’s presence, smelling the slight tinge of pear-scented shampoo, hear the soft beating of his steady heart, and feel the minute huffs of air blowing faintly against his curls, with John’s lips resting gently against the top of his head; it made his heart ache in a miscellany of emotions.

“I want to,” he huffed out a shaky breath. “I want to, John. But how do you know if it’s even possible for me to get better? What if I’m irreparable?”

He swallowed his throat before continuing further, “Everything you told me, it seems reassuring and good but– it’s all just wishful thinking.” His hair tangled as he shook his head against John’s shoulders. “You don’t know, John. And that’s the thing that scares me the most. I don’t know if I’m ever capable of getting better. I don’t know how long you’ll stay until I become too much for you and you leave. I don’t even know if everything that has happened up to now is real, or my hallucination.”

Gently, he removed John’s arms from his frail body and searched to meet his best friend’s eyes.

“I’m not even sure if you’re real.”

The memory of his dream replayed in his head like a rolling film; the peacefulness of daily life, the laughter and smiles of Mrs Hudson and Molly, the light and pointless bicker he shared with John in serene domesticity.

And in the next moment, all of that faded away and he was once again back in the grimy dungeon of a foreign land.

“How do I know that this isn’t just a dream? How can I be sure that I won’t wake up tomorrow and find myself beaten and tortured again?”

“Because when you wake up tomorrow, you will wake up where we are now, on the sofa in the sitting room with me besides you.” John answered as he looked back at Sherlock, his eyes locking on his as he spoke, finding uncertainty and fear looking back at him. “And if that’s not what you wake up to, then it’s not real.”

“You aren’t irreparable, it’s just going to take time Sherlock, more time then you’re going to like, but it’ll happen. It just seems impossible at the moment, but it’s not.”

He reached out and gently placed his hand on the thin shoulder of his friend and gave it a soft, reassuring squeeze.

“As for me, I’m not going to leave you. I have no intentions of going anywhere. I didn’t before and I most certainly don’t now.”

Something caught up in his throat and soon, he could no longer contain the tears that welled up in his eyes. Breathing became a strangely difficult task, his chest tightening and every breath turned into a hitched hiccup.

Rarely would he reveal his heart and soul to anyone, and he couldn’t quite understand why he did so this time, but in a moment of vulnerability, he folded himself into John’s arms, head tucked beneath John’s chin as droplets of saline continued to fall, and his trembling hands gripped tightly onto John’s pyjama shirt.

_I’m home. John is here._

_I’m home._

He repeated those words over and over in his head like a ritualised chant as his body continued to vaguely shiver in a mishmash of inexplicable emotions.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s trembling frame, pulling him secure against his chest as his head rested atop of the dark mop of curls under his chin.

“It’s alright Sherlock.” He said softly as one hand gently rubbed his friend’s arm. “You’re home, and your safe.” The grip on his shirt tightened a fraction as if Sherlock made was making sure that the fabric under his fingers wouldn’t disappear.

He continued to repeat himself in a soft voice periodically, his shirt growing wet from where the other man’s face was gently pressed into it, but that didn’t matter, not to John anyway, all that mattered was that his friend felt safe.

John didn’t know how long it took for the trembling in Sherlock’s shoulders to cease or for his tears to stop or the grip on John’s shirt to slacken slightly or for his breathing to even out as exhaustion took its toll on his body and he drifted off in John’s arms.

He sighed as he brushed away the fray curls away from Sherlock’s face and the few tears that still clung to his pale cheeks. Slowly, he lowered them both back down against the surface of the couch, his arm still encircled around Sherlock’s thin shoulders, drifting off to sleep a short time later to the sound of Sherlock’s even breathing besides him.

 

The sun came in shining through the curtains, landing on John’s face a few hours later, waking him from his slumber and he was about to move when he noticed the pressure at his side.

Turning his head and blinking slowly, he realized that Sherlock was still curled up at his side, under his arm.

Sherlock looked so much younger as he slept, the worry lines were erased from his face and he just looked completely at ease.

It occurred to John that this must have been the most peaceful sleep the brunette must have had in months, and the sense of urgency to move left him, especially if there was a chance that he would wake up the still sleeping detective.  

As the sun rose higher, it became obvious John was going to have to move before Sherlock woke. Carefully he moved his arm from behind Sherlock’s body and extracted his shoulder from under the dark curls and managed to slide out over the arm of the sofa, leaving Sherlock where he laid.

It was decided as he walked up stairs to grab his phone, he would call in sick today from work, he would stay home instead, look after and spend some time with Sherlock.

Phone in hand and phone call made, John made his way back down the stairs and into the sitting room, so he would be in sight when his friend woke up.

As minutes turned into half-hours, the radiance of sunlight elongated further into the messy flat, Sherlock’s eyes flutter into consciousness. His head still swirling from the daze of sleep, he removed the duvet from his body and gently lifted himself into a sitting position.

He stared blankly at the Venetian blinds, the rustling of activity and subtle clangs of porcelain in the kitchen behind him; filling him with an odd sensation of calm and serenity.

And yet his skin crawled and emotions tangled.

_Damn it. Damn it! Why did I tell him?_

Admittedly, sharing his fears and burden to John has put his mind at ease; but at what cost? Now John knows with gory details the horrors he had endured, the extent to which his damaged mind have sustained, and whatever remnants of his old self that remained in the person he is now.

In the end, none of that would erase what happened, nor would it fix the pain and sorrow bubbling inside him. And it only left him naked and exposed; with all its scar and shameful wounds on his body to be exposed for John to see.

'I can’t let that happen,' he thought.

And with that, Sherlock decided he needed to stop; refrain from divulging more information, suppress the memories until it diminishes to nothingness, and most of all, he needed to be stronger. He couldn't cry, not in front anyone, least of all to John. Because now John knows. So he needed to prove to John that he wasn't as damaged as he appeared the previous night. Even if it meant lying.

The sound of John’s voice startled him out of his reverie, turning his head to be greeted by the sight of John exiting the kitchen with two plates of identical food.

“I made breakfast, I didn’t know if you would be hungry or not, but I made you a plate anyway.” John said as he walked towards Sherlock, glad to see the other man awake.

“I hope all the noise I was making in the kitchen didn’t wake you though, if it did, I’m sorry.” He stated as he placed the plates on the coffee table before going back to the kitchen to grab the tea and silverware.

He wasn’t certain how this would turn out, after all Sherlock, his usually closed off friend, had opened up like a damn, spilling something that had been eating at him for months, and he was certain that the conversation over breakfast would not be the same as the one the night before. It would be best not to push it, and finish letting the fact Sherlock’s torture was much more horrendous sink in.

Sherlock eyed on the plate of food; scrambled eggs, two slightly charred sausages and a half-burnt toast. Immediately, his stomach twisted in revulsion. Odd; he was actually hungry and hadn’t eaten a proper meal for at least two days - unless tea and a bite of biscotti qualifies as a ‘proper meal’. And yet bile threatened to rise in his throat at the thought of consuming the breakfast John had prepared him.

“You can have both. I’d very much prefer not to increase my risk of getting cancer,” he joked dismissively, nodding at the burnt areas of the sausage and toast. “I’m not hungry.”

A wave of headache sent black spots in his vision as he tried to stand up and his body swayed slightly before his arm quickly held onto the coffee table for support.

John was at Sherlock’s side the moment he saw him sway, his brow furrowing with concern as he looked at his flatmate.

"You alright?” He asked, though it was one of those questions he asked out of habit. Of course he wasn’t alright, he had nearly fallen over.

"When was the last time you had anything that resembled a decent meal, and by decent I mean something more than tea.”

"No, I'm fine." Sherlock stretched out his arm against John's chest, pushing weakly to gain some distance. "Don't be overly dramatic, John. I just woke up; orthostatic hypotension from sudden change of sitting position to standing up does that to people."

He knew there were some truth to his words, but regardless, there was something obviously more worrying to Sherlock's exceptionally weakened state besides the mild dizziness rush. His eyes were sunken and his arms were limp, it made him uncharacteristically easy to manhandle despite having made attempts to struggle. And what's more, only in the brightness of morning light did it become visibly obvious; his pyjamas, that used to fit nicely on his lean frame, were now hanging loose. Perhaps not to an extent worthy of much alarm, but it was certainly obvious that he had lost a pound or two.

John took a step back at the weak push against his chest to give Sherlock the obvious space he wanted. He knew he wasn’t being overly dramatic when it came to the possibility that Sherlock’s weakened state was due to the fact he hadn’t been eating. The proof was in front of him.

It was the way the clothes hung of the other’s frame instead of fitting like they used to, the fact he didn’t have as much strength as he once had when it came to shoving John out of the way, and of course the fact he seemed he was going to fall over.

“I’m not being over dramatic Sherlock, I am just looking out for your well being.”

And that was the truth, not only was food important to keep up energy and strength, but it was just as important when it came to healing wounds.

Sherlock swirled his head and furrowed his brows, realizing John’s presence despite the near-afternoon hour, “Why aren’t you at work?”

A moment of wordless reply from John was all he needed to deduce. “You took leave to babysit me. God– John, I might have divulged certain information associated to my captivity to you, but don’t be so self-absorbed to view my disclosure as some sort of cry for help for you to take responsibility for.” He snapped in a derisive tone.

I knew it, he thought. There was no benefit in disclosing any of it to John or anyone. It would only be met with a response more burdening than beneficial - unnecessary sympathy and pity; reactions which will only impede his attempts at memory deletion of the trauma.

If he wanted to believe he could be the person he once was, he at least needed to feel and act like his old self again. And John’s mollycoddling, which did nothing besides intensify his shame, had to be rid.

John was taken aback by Sherlock’s words, he had hoped after last night they had taken that first step together, but apparently he was wrong. Sherlock had taken it as some sort of weakness and he was going to lash out at the only person around: him.

“Is that what you think?” John asked as he looked at Sherlock, “That I’m here to babysit you? Perhaps I just thought we were getting somewhere and it would do you good just to have me around, but obviously I was wrong.”

He couldn’t look at Sherlock directly in the eye and he scolded himself for not knowing better.

Sherlock couldn't help the feeling of guilt that rushed over him as soon as he saw the hurt in John's expression. His eyes followed as John went back into the kitchen and out with two sets of cutlery - fork and butter knife - at hand, and proceeded towards the coffee table where he carelessly threw the silverware from relative distance in repressed frustration, causing it to crash upon hitting the ceramic plates with a loud clang. Sherlock flinched visibly at the loud sound.

John paid no attention, his back still turned against Sherlock. He picked up his plate from the coffee table to settle down on the dining table instead, where he laid his breakfast beside his open laptop and violently dragged the chair to make way for his seat. The chair's wooden leg bellowed a deep, staccato noise as it skidded against the floor which, once again, caused Sherlock to flinch upon the loud noise.

Sherlock focused his glance on John who was now downing his breakfast while staring blankly at the laptop monitor, refusing to even let Sherlock enter his peripheral vision.

His throat hardens. The food John had generously prepared him was getting cold. Hesitantly, he parted his lips, knowing it was his cue to say something.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock muttered. "I appreciate your efforts, John, but I'm not hungry."

Not exactly an apology.

John didn’t so much as make a sound as he heard Sherlock’s words, instead he jabbed fork hard into the plate, the metal clanging against the ceramic dish. It wasn’t exactly an apology, but then again the only person Sherlock had ever apologized to was Molly, and that was after a public humiliation at the Christmas Party.

“Then don’t eat it.” he said gruffly before going back to his silence.

He couldn’t see the other man and he wasn’t exactly sure if he wanted to. He was upset, he thought they had gotten somewhere, he had taken time off, not to babysit Sherlock, but to just be there, a reassuring presence that wasn’t going anywhere.

But he was wrong, oh so wrong and it stung, and he berated himself for not knowing better, because this was Sherlock he was thinking about, But he had been hoping, just hoping that this had change just slightly.

Instead he found himself eating breakfast staring at his laptop screen, pretending that he wasn’t really there, because that is what it seemed what Sherlock wanted.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered in uncertainty. He glanced at John, then to his untouched breakfast.

He bit his lips and decided a hot beverage was best to ease the tension in the atmosphere. He exited the kitchen with a hot cup of black coffee, no sugar, and placed it on the dining table beside John.

"It's not drugged this time." His hand waved pointlessly. "The coffee, I mean."

John kept silent.

"John, I... The breakfast was nice of you but," Sherlock spoke in a small, confused voice. "I'm not helpless. Despite whatever I told you last night, I'm not helpless. And I don't want you to think that of me. It's not your obligation to care for me so stop pretending to play the guardian role because I don't need it-"

Immediately, he regretted his words.

What a stupid thing to say. He had intended to apologize and instead, all he did was insult John further and accused his good intention as a dishonest, self-rewarding act.

“No, that’s not what I meant– I mean…” He quickly tried to correct himself but came up with nothing.

The thoughts that filled his head were a mess of irony. There was an urgent desire to reclaim his strength and being, to prove that he could survive and function without John’s overbearing concern; and at the same time he craved reassurance and safety, one that only John could offer. A dance of paradoxical symphony.

Unable to find any words, Sherlock left his sentence to fall incomplete.

That stung more than before. Is that what he thought of John’s efforts? As some sort of self rewarding act that would get him some extra brownie points in the long run?

John ignored the coffee as the steam rose into the air, and he certainly didn’t turn his head to acknowledge the fact Sherlock was standing there either. But now, the fork in his hand rested against the plate and he looked straight ahead to the screen.

“Then what exactly do you mean? Because I’m trying hard to understand. Honestly if you don’t want me around as much, you just have to say it instead of insulting me.”

“Don’t be childish, John. You know perfectly what I meant.” Sherlock snapped, his nose crumpled in response.

“Don’t be childish?” John snapped back as he finally turned to look at Sherlock. “I’m not the one being childish here. I’m not the one that’s taking normal friendly gestures out if their context and assuming that I’m mothering you out of pity and for some extra points in the long run.”

“And no I don’t know what you mean other than you keep insisting you aren’t weak like you have something to prove. I know that you aren’t and you don’t have to prove anything to me.”

"Then why did you feel it necessary to take a day off? To look after me like a child? To monitor me so I don't do anything stupid?" Sherlock hissed before taking five long strides to retrieve his plate of food from the coffee table.

"And what the hell is this for?" He re-emerged to fling the plate beside John's. The contents flew momentarily and one of the sausages bounced off the plate. "You've never bothered to cook anything from scratch, you don't usually have the time, and when we're not eating Mrs Hudson's home cooked food, you always order takeout."

Something in his mind was telling him to shut up, _shut up!_ But his mouth continued to spit venom. "The only time you ever put in any effort into cooking a proper food is when you're making a pathetic attempt to satisfy your need for validation from your girlfriends."

“I don’t need this.” John remarked as he stood, closing his laptop. “You may think that they destroyed you, but they didn’t, your venom, your anger, is still there. And all you are is being a bitter child.”

He left the plates were they lie and slid the computer off the table, tucking it under his arm as he made his way through the door in the kitchen, not giving Sherlock another look as he made his way up the stairs.

He was hurt by Sherlock’s actions and mildly surprised at the fact he had thrown the plate on the table, though the outburst was something he probably should have seen coming after his display of violence yesterday.

John had thought they had progressed some, at least to the point where maybe helping Sherlock was somewhat tangible. He had admitted there was a problem, and that was the first step, and in the span of a few minutes, they had ended up right back where they had started. And honestly, he wasn’t sure how he felt about that, angry no, disappointed maybe.

He tossed the laptop gingerly on his bed and grabbed a pair of jeans and a jumper and changed quickly out of his night clothes, grabbing his keys he had left in the trousers he wore the night before and set off down stairs. Walking past the open door of the flat, he paid no attention to whether or not Sherlock was still standing there; instead he kept going, making sure to close the street door loudly as he stepped out into the London air.

Sherlock's shoulders jerked when the wooden door slammed on its frame and his heartbeat accelerated against his chest.

John left. He might return tonight or even tomorrow; but it didn't erase the fact that John _chose_ to leave.

And he might not want to come back at all the next time it happens.

The thought sent panic through his brain and Sherlock felt his stomach sink as fear began to arise. But his emotions soon dissipated into fury. Because how dare John lie to him, after convincing him to trust him and after exposing his innermost vulnerabilities to him, how dare John betray his trust?

An overwhelming rush of anger came over him, prompting him to pick up his breakfast plate and throw it across the room. The ceramic shatters upon impact on the wall, leaving behind sharp fragments to litter the floor.

"What's all this noise so early in the morning?" Mrs Hudson queried as she climbed up the stairs. "Slamming the door and loud crashing all morning long; what on earth is going on up here-" she gasped when she finally took sight of the mess on the floor.

Large fragments of ceramic pieces amid smaller, particulate ones scattered on the floor, while chunks of food landed its fall near his feet, sogging it with oil from the sausage.

"Oh Sherlock, what happened? Where's John?" She took two steps into the flat before Sherlock grabbed her by the shoulders, swiftly turned her around and pushed her out.

"LEAVE!" He slammed the door on her face and locked it.

His legs crumbled onto the floor, chest heaving hard, and he screamed through gritted teeth, his fingers pulling painfully at the roots of his hair. A deep, bellowing cry filled the room as he continued to wail in abhorring agony; screaming until his throat became dry and sore, and his chest constricted for air.

Once he was satisfied, he leaned his head against the door, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions still inside him as he panted heavy breaths.

Then, something caught his attention at the corner of his eyes. The broken pieces glimmered in his periphery, pulling his attention to its uneven, sharp edge.

Without much thought, his arms moved in autopilot and reached for the sharp fragment. He placed the serrated edge against his left arm and, without thought or hesitation, dragged the porcelain blade across his flesh as blood began to stain his milky white skin.

John focused on the pounding of his feet on the pavement as he tried to calm himself down before returning to the flat. He just needed to breathe, collect himself and to try and figure out how he would attempt to face Sherlock on his return and hopefully when he did, his friend would be a lot more calm than he had been when they were arguing.

He took a deep breath and looked up from where he had been staring down at the pavement as he walked down Baker Street. He could hear the hushed whispers and people gossiped as he walked past them. voices low and in a hurry as if they were afraid that they would say would escape them. And then they were watching him as he walked by, and he couldn’t understand why.

Then he saw it as he passed the news stand on the corner, through the crowd of people standing around it the booth. The face staring at him from the front page was the one he had just left at the flat fifteen minutes before. However, the reason Sherlock’s face was plastered all over the news print wasn’t because of some big sec he had solved, or some service to the community: no. Not at all. John’s throat closed up and he felt sick as he stared at the headline:

 

**_DOUBLE STANDARD?: FAMOUS DETECTIVE COMMITS MURDER, NOT PUNISHED FOR CRIME ._ **

**_Sleuth commits a heinous murder, yet is released from Scotland Yard mere hours after taken into custody, is there a double standard in the justice system?_ **

  
He couldn’t let Sherlock see this; he couldn’t let him know that it had gotten out. His hands curled into fists before relaxing them. Quickly he turned on his heel and headed back towards Baker Street, his ill feelings had subsided; there were more pressing matters at hand.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: ideation of self-harm

The first quick slice across his wrist was surprisingly satisfying. It wasn't a deep cut, rather, fairly shallow like a paper cut. The jagged edge tore apart his skin unevenly and blood welled up in tiny droplets.

Sherlock didn't quite know what it was, but there was something calming about the pain. It stung slightly, but bearable. And a brief wave of relief washed over him.

But it wasn't enough.

He needed more.

To silence his mind. To empty all his thoughts and emotions. To calm his heart.

Another slice. Much faster this time and deeper. His shaky hands made the cut messy and chaotic. Deep scarlet stained his perfect, fair skin, trickling down his arm to the tip of his fingers.

He released a ragged breath and dropped his head to hang on his shoulders. Blood continued to run down his mutilated arm while his untouched hand dropped to his side, still loosely holding onto the sharp sliver.

What has he done?

If John knew, he would be so cross. He would be disgusted; repulsed. John would leave without a second thought.

It felt like something lodged in his throat. When the rush of endorphins subsided, the only thing that remained was guilt and shame. He folded his limbs onto his chest and focused on breathing and the stinging pain on his arm.

He laid there for a few minutes, listening to the muted white noise of the empty flat, waiting for his mind to clear and emotions to untangle. Suddenly an urgent realization dawned on him that his arm was still bleeding. Two parallel streaks of crimson across his skin, still open and exposed.

He couldn't let John see. He couldn't let John know what he had done to himself.

John would misinterpret it as a cry for help or a suicide attempt. It's not. It was just something he had to do, to silence everything, to remember what calm felt like. But he knew John would not understand.

Sherlock quickly stood up and scrambled to the bathroom, bringing the weapon in question along with him. He locked the door behind him and rummaged through the mirror cabinet for first aid supplies. He ran water down his torn flesh and applied three drops of Betadine, wincing at the sudden intense burn as the iodine met his open wound, and then sloppily wrap the bandages around his arm.

He hurriedly washed the ceramic fragment to rid the blood off and threw it into the bin.

Just as he was nearly finished, he heard the lock of the front door click open followed by someone's voice; Mrs Hudson?

No, John.

He immediately quickened his pace and wiped the remaining blood stains on his arm and sink bowl and discarded the tissue used into the toilet and flushed it, making sure he had gotten rid of all the evidence of his self-harm.

Once done, Sherlock rushed to lock his bedroom and sought comfort on his bed where he hid underneath his duvet, pulling it over his head as he waited with palpitating heart.

_Don’t come in, John. Don’t knock, don’t ask anything._

_Just go out, go somewhere– anywhere but here._

At this point, it was better if John had left than to see him like this. Pitiful and pathetic.

\---

John’s trek home was faster than the one to get away. The building was quiet as he made his way up the stairs and he paused to stare at the closed door for a moment and thought about what he walking back into. As his hand wrapped around the door knob, he decided that it didn’t matter what he was walking back into.

“Sherlock?” he called as he opened the door to find the sitting room empty. He inched his way into their living space, looking for anything that seemed out of place.

The sound of glass crunching under his shoe prompted him to look down, finding the remnants of the plate that had been tossed at him on the floor, white porcelain scattered everywhere. He sighed as he took a step back off of the piece that his shoe had turned into smaller pieces and dust.

He remained quiet as he fetched the broom and the dustpan to sweep up the mess that was most likely caused after he left. He couldn’t help the wave of guilt that crashed over him as he cleaned up the shards.

He had done the one thing he had promised he wouldn’t do, he had left.

John dumped the dirt, glass, and food into the bin and placed them back where they had been found. He stood there for a minute before slowly making his way down the short hall that lead to Sherlock’s door and knocked softly.

“Sherlock.” He called softly. “I-I’m home…. I’m sorry for storming out.”

It was an apology, one that didn’t have to be accepted and one that certainly wouldn’t fix things.

Sherlock held on tightly to his duvet. John's apology was the last thing he wanted to hear, not after what he did to himself. He needed John to be angry at him, upset even, or disappointed. Anything but the caring, understanding person that John was being at this moment.

Because he didn't want to feel like he didn't deserve John's kindness.

Because if John was angry at him, it would make his self-injury feel justified.

"Sherlock," John repeated weakly.

"Go away, John!" He bellowed. "Clearly you've got better things to do than deal with my childish farce."

Usually that would prompt John to turn around and leave, giving Sherlock the space that he wanted, but he had already left once that afternoon, and he wasn’t going to do it again. Especially not after seeing the papers.

“I’m not going away, I’ll stand here all day if I have to.” He replied as he shifted his weight. “I already left once today and that was a mistake.”

He wasn’t much to voicing when he had made a mistake much like how Sherlock didn’t apologize, thought this wasn’t about saving face and keeping his pride, this was making sure that Sherlock was okay, without saying he was doing so.

The door opened promptly with Sherlock standing rigidly before John, green-blue eyes staring down at him.

John's mouth was agape as if ready to begin his speech.

"Stop. Whatever it is you're about to say, just stop." Sherlock interrupted. "You're being repetitive. You'll come to my door and offer unnecessary condolences, offer help and promises that you can't keep. And I, in return, foolishly believe to trust in you, only to have you storm out not one day later. So no, I don't want to talk about it. No, there is nothing I have to say to you."

He doesn't know for sure if he meant what he said to John. The words simply rolled out of his tongue naturally, spiteful as it was. But it felt like the right thing to say. The only way to stop the cycle from repeating.

He knew it was a mistake from the beginning. He should've kept it all to himself.

But John's offer of protection seemed, on hindsight, like a tantalizing offer. At first.

Now he knows better. He knows not to trust anyone with this information. With sharing his pain.

Because people will leave. They always leave. Even John.

It was more than apparent at Sherlock’s statement that he had messed up rather royally. He had promised Sherlock that he would have stayed and yet he left. There was no way Sherlock was going to accept his apology now, he was upset with him and rightfully so. There was no excuse that Sherlock would believe either, so this was something that he would come back to. Instead he changed the subject.

“Are you hurt?” He asked instead. “I saw the broken plate pieces and I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t get any glass anywhere when you threw it.”

There was a high chance Sherlock wouldn’t answer, in fact John bet he wouldn’t. Not now. Maybe not ever again and there was no one to blame but himself for that.

“I’m fine. I’ll clean up the mess right now, if that’s your real concern.” Sherlock hissed, his shoulders hitting John as he walked past him through the hallway.

He nearly panicked for a moment there, John’s question almost seemed like a deliberate jab to his self-harm. But it turns out to be just a normal question. John still doesn’t know.

Sherlock gave a brief sigh of relief while his back was still turned towards John.

Suddenly, a lightning jolt of pain sparked through his nervous system and it felt like his arms were burning. John’s hand had enveloped his wounded arm over a layer of Sherlock’s long satin sleeves, grabbing and pulling almost exactly at the area where the cut was deepest. It was probably just an innocent light tug in John’s mind. But he was pressing on the still fresh wound, and the slightest firm squeeze was sending unbearable pain to Sherlock. The torn flesh began to bleed once more, soaking the bandages with red.

“No, Sherlock, wait–”

The pain was too much to hold in and Sherlock couldn’t help but grunt through gritted teeth and his eyes squeezed shut.

Quickly, he yanked his hand from John’s grasp; instinctively pulling his wounded arm into his chest in self-protection.

John stared at Sherlock in shock; he hadn’t grabbed him that much to cause a reaction, unless there was something he had not seen that was causing the other man extreme discomfort.

Maybe it was something Sherlock had sustained while being arrested the day before and he didn’t want John to know about it because he had already told him too much, or maybe Sherlock had broken something else and had cut himself in the process and John had yet to lay eyes on the mess.

“You aren’t fine Sherlock.” He said as he watched Sherlock cradle his arm against his chest with his eyes screwed shut and evident pain written all over his face. “You’re obviously hurt, let me take a quick look at it and see if everything is alright. It won’t take any more than five minutes and then you can go about your business.”

John pulled Sherlock’s arm towards him to inspect as he spoke, taking hold of his wrist to ensure he wouldn’t aggravate the pain inadvertently.

“No, DON’T–” Sherlock instantly snapped up and thrusts his good hand at John’s chest, sending John to hit his back at the wall.

\----

John’s body resounded slightly as his back hit the hard surface. His eyes widened slightly at Sherlock’s actions, but he didn’t turn to flee. Instead he held his hands up in surrender.

“Alright, Alright, I won’t touch it again.” He said as he looked at his roommate.

His arm once again cradled against his chest for protection, his face pale from the pain and his jaw was clenched while he held his body defensively.

“But it needs to be looked at Sherlock, while you haven’t bled through your sleeve is damp.” He said. He could feel the slight dampness of the fabric when he grabbed it, and while Sherlock had yet to bleed through, the bandages needed to be changed and the wound looked at.

_Not good._

_Not good!_

If he wasn’t more careful, it was only a matter of time until John discovers what Sherlock had done to himself. He considered if he could let John treat the wound and pass it off as an accidental cut from the shattered plate as John had said, but that option was dismissed since the nature and location of the injury was clearly self-inflicted.

John needed to be kept in the dark.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s just a superficial cut,” Sherlock lied, his good hand waving gestures in the air aimlessly; frantically. “I was trying to clean up the mess earlier and the shard slipped from my hand and–”

Stop talking. Only lies have details.

“Look, doesn’t matter. If you’re done being a nuisance, then get out of my face, I need to clean the mess before Mrs Hudson finds out about the carpet stain and gives another hour-long lecture.”

John gave Sherlock a quizzical look as he lowered his hands to his sides, reminding himself that Sherlock was only being this way to defend himself and that there was no need to storm away again.

He didn’t remember seeing any blood in the shards of porcelain and food he had picked up when he came home. However, something didn’t seem right.

“No need to worry about the mess, I picked it up when I came in.” He said finally. “Didn’t want anyone to step in it and cut open their foot.”

He kept his voice even, speaking normally, one of them was already upset, no need to make it worse. There were people outside the flat that were doing a perfect job at that.

“Oh,” Sherlock paused in his footsteps. “I... I see.”

He lingered awkwardly for a moment, his fist clenching and unclenching. He needed something - a reason, an excuse - to be away from John’s scrutiny for a moment. To check his arm and properly treat the wound, change the blood-soaked bandages, but most of all he needed a break from John.

He didn’t even know how he felt about John at the moment or why he was so desperate to be away from him. John’s presence, John’s warmth, John’s concern, John’s anger; to be honest, it scared him. He was afraid of John. And how ridiculous is that; that he was afraid of his own best friend.

Sherlock’s eyes searched the floor, trying to find something to say. Should he say ‘thank you’; for having John clean up the mess? Or should he say ‘I’m sorry’ instead?

His lips parted wordlessly and only a quivering breath escaped.

John looked at Sherlock as he struggled to find the words he was looking for.

“Should I give you some space?” He asked, to which Sherlock just nodded.

John gave him a curt nod and made his way from the hall, leaving Sherlock standing there for a moment.

“I’ll be in the sitting room if you need me.” He called as the door to Sherlock’s room shut leaving John to himself. With nothing else to occupy him, John made his way to his bedroom to grab his discarded laptop before going back to the sitting room to settle in his chair.

There was something not quite right about what Sherlock had begun to say about his wound. How would the broken glass from the plate cut him there? Had there been glass he had not seen and it cut him? Was he being so defensive about it because he was upset with John for leaving? Or was there something else he was hiding?

Whatever it was, he most likely wasn’t going to find out soon. He lifted the laptop lid and typed in his password. Out of habit he opened up the browser to check his blog. He hadn’t posted a new entry in a while so he was more than surprised when he noticed the amount of notifications he seemed to have.

And as soon as he clicked the ‘New Comments’ John wish he hadn’t.

On the last blog entry he had made was a flood of comments, though they had nothing to do with the case or the usual questions, in fact after looking over what was said, John was rather sure he was going to close the comments section.

_How does it feel to live with a murder?_

_Talk about a double standard!_

_Just because he solves a few crimes doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be in prison._

_He killed an innocent man! How can you stand to look at him?_

_He’s not just a freak! He’s a cold blooded Killer!_

John closed the laptop with a snap and sighed as he rested his forehead in his hand. He was glad Sherlock was in his room, he didn’t know what he would have done if he had been reading over his shoulder.

\---

Sherlock cupped two sleeping pills into his palm and swallowed it dry. The sleeping pills had been prescribed to him by Mycroft's chosen doctors when he was first brought home to London, naturally to patch up Sherlock's injuries and assess his mental state before he was allowed clearance to roam the streets of London. The psychiatrist foresaw the possibility of Sherlock experiencing insomnia and sleep disturbances on top of increased anxiety, and gave him the benzodiazepines as a precautionary step. Typically, Sherlock hated taking any sedative inducing drugs as he didn't want to risk anything that could impede with his sharp mental acuity; he couldn't bare to compromise the cognitive tool he needed to solve cases.

But now that tool no longer has utility. With Sherlock in house arrest and deemed a criminal, it would be unprofessional and extremely unethical for Lestrade to continue consulting him, not to mention the certain risk of Lestrade getting sacked.

Sherlock had no activity to invigorate his brain, and recently, it feels like his mind was just a lump of incoherent mess. He just wanted to rest, to silence his thoughts, to numb himself from everything. So he chose sleep.

 

_I am not leaving, I am here for you. To help you._

_It’s alright Sherlock. You’re home, and you’re safe._

_You’re my best friend, Sherlock. That’s what friends do; they look after one another, care for one another, and are kind to one another, sometimes regardless of the other’s actions._  


_I don’t need this. You may think that they destroyed you, but they didn’t; your venom, your anger, is still there. And all you are is being a bitter child._

 

That was the first time Sherlock had a dream that wasn’t about his captivity as prisoner.

When he awoke, the tangled emotions he felt before was gone and only numbness remained. He looked out his window – it was still daylight; 4:31 P.M. – and, moving out of pure routine, headed to the bathroom to wash his face, anticipating for the rest of the day’s activity to begin until he realizes that there was nothing to look forward to. No cases. House arrest. No freedom. He cups tap water into his palm and brought it to his face, letting the coolness of the water refresh his dazed state. Small runoffs trailed down the length of his arm, some of it soaking the corners of his bandages, and finally fall at the edge of his elbow as a droplet. Sherlock examined his injured arm, remove the bandages and examined the wound. It stood out from the rest of his pale skin, still red and angry.

And it itched.

The scar itched with painful longing.

His fingers hovered over the scar, touching it lightly. For some reason, it felt satisfying, very satisfying, to see his own flesh injured. It wasn’t that he enjoyed mutilating himself nor was it a desire for self-termination, but it reminded him of the brief moment of relief he felt when he made that first slice; the surge of calm that rushed over him but subsided way too soon.

He wanted more.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know we never really mention it but so far we've always updated once a week on Tuesdays so yeah, sorry for the late update. 
> 
> But, this chapter is longer so we hope that could make up for the delay :) and remember, comments are invaluable to us or leave kudos if you enjoyed this fic :D

John had picked up a book after placing his laptop on the floor besides his chair. He found it safer than turning on the TV in case Sherlock came out. He had no idea if the story had made it to the news stations, but he didn’t want to risk Sherlock finding out by walking in on them dragging him through the mud. 

He looked up at the clock when he heard Sherlock began to shuffle around in his bedroom. He had been rather quiet and John figured that he had most likely slept away the afternoon. He just didn’t know what to expect from Sherlock when he walked into the sitting room.

\----

Sherlock sat at the edge of the bed, still resisting the urge to experience that one brief moment of relief only a blade could offer. This was new. He had never once considered such an act, not until recently. To be perfectly honest, his mind craved for the high of cocaine, that numbing and euphoric sensation which made his life feel like it's worth living for, beyond the mediocre dullness of mere existence. A seven percent solution perhaps.

But he couldn't afford to shoot up now, not with the cameras and risking giving away the location of his secret stash; it was at the topmost cupboard in the kitchen, stowed away behind a fake plaster that John easily mistook as the back of the cabinet. The cupboard was too high for John to reach without struggling and far too deep for John to easily reach the back corner. Plus, it was filled with extra cups, mugs and utensils; one which neither of them ever use because there was never a shortage of cups to necessitate retrieving the extras from the cupboard, so its existence often slips from John's mind. Even if John remembered to check there, he would only look, he wouldn't touch or remove anything for fear of accidentally breaking the porcelain cups.

So long as the cameras were installed and every inch of the kitchen was under scrutiny, retrieving his secret stash was not an option. Neither was he permitted to leave the flat, let alone sneak out to get more drugs. 

The only other alternative he had was the blade. It has a similar kind of high, albeit too brief for his liking and nowhere near as satisfying, but it was better than nothing. 

His mind returned to reality when he heard the shuffling of John's feet behind his door - shit - and soon followed by the sound of the bathroom door closing. Oh.

He breathed out a sigh of relief.

He had to find a way to face John and ease the tension; to find the equilibrium they used to have. Right now sentimentality like pity, concern, disappointment, anger, frustration were the reason for their strained friendship. And Sherlock didn't want this one to end. He liked John. He liked having John in his life. And if he kept this up, these tension and awkwardness between them, John would leave. John already did once. It was a guarantee that John would do it again.

So Sherlock decided the best route was to pretend nothing had ever happened. Reset the events. Overwrite it with normalcy.

As if on cue, Sherlock emerged from his room just as John food from the bathroom. 

Sherlock gave him a firm smile and forced a casual tone, "How was Mrs Hudson's shepherd's pie?" 

"What?" John seemed off guard by Sherlock's question. 

"The tiny crumbs on your shirt and the smell of your breath. Mrs Hudson's shepherd's pie has a distinct smell because she always cooks it with generous amounts of garlic. Hers was always one of my favourites; too bad her timing is a little off lately, she baked it a little too long and the crust is charred in some corners and the rest of it is a darker shade of brown instead of the golden brown colour it should be. She's losing her touch." 

Sherlock continued his stride towards the kitchen and turned his head slightly and offered John, "Tea?" 

John stared at Sherlock’s retreating form before looking down at the shirt he was wearing to see the crumbs that had been left from the dinner Mrs. Hudson had brought up to them to eat. 

He looked up again to the other’s retreating form half startled half surprised about this sudden change in his behaviour. While he had always been on his toes when it came to Sherlock and his ever changing mind and moods, the last few days had thrown him for a loop, and he had no idea what to expect. 

Though as much as he wanted to ask what was up with the sudden change in demeanour, he thought against it. Mentioning it might be the beginning to another fight and they had had enough of those for one day. 

“Yeah… tea would be great” He said after a moment, giving Sherlock a nod before walking past him in the kitchen, pausing for a moment. “If you’re hungry there is Shepherd’s pie in the fridge.” 

It was a passing comment, one that he usually made when it came to Sherlock’s eating habit. It was a gesture of normalcy, it was what Sherlock had been reaching for.

“Yes.” Sherlock replied nonchalantly, retrieving the jar of sugar from the cupboard. “No sugar for you, yes?”

John nodded. Sherlock added two teaspoons of sugar to his tea and none to John’s, passing the tea to John as he walked to his seat near his microscope and laptop on the kitchen table. 

He didn’t know what else to say so he said the first thing that came to mind. “Anything new on your blog, John? Any requests, mails, cases, something, anything?” He said as he turned on his laptop. “I need a case. My mind has been rotting for the past couple of days and this stupid punishment is preventing Lestrade from consulting me. Stupid, really. If he wants his cases solved quickly he should have come to me, regardless of what Mycroft says.”

“And as much as I hate to admit it,” he continued rambling, “my blog is, unfortunately, less popular than yours. Hardly anything in my inbox. Just spam. Anything in yours? Old rich woman with missing jewels, love affairs; I’ll take anything right now, even the boring ones.” 

Sherlock paused to look up. “What was the name of your blog? ‘Johnwatsonblog’ was it?” 

John nearly choked on his tea, though thankfully it went unnoticed by Sherlock.

His heart began to pound feverishly against his chest at the fact Sherlock was trying to access his blog. He couldn’t let him see the comments people had left, not now, not right at this moment. It was the last thing Sherlock needed that day.

“I checked it earlier.” He said trying to keep his voice calm and even despite the anxiety he was feeling. “There wasn’t anything.” 

He hid his face in his mug as he took a drink of his tea, trying to hide his deception. Though he told himself it was for Sherlock’s sake. He didn’t think he could handle the backlash, and honestly he was afraid that this was going to end just like the last time, with him burying his best friend. 

“Oh. How disappointing.” 

Sherlock took a sip of his hot tea; it burned the edge of his tongue slightly. He put the cup back to its saucer and stared blankly at his laptop screen. It was infuriating that there was nothing to do. And it was worse that there was nothing to say. 

He looked up to John sitting across him, drinking his tea. John continued to stare at his mug, and although his eyes never really shifted, Sherlock knew John was refraining to make eye contact with him. 

They were supposed to be friends, weren’t they? 

So why does the simple act of looking at each other feel so impossible; as though the entire flat was filled with unease and tension that a knife could easily cut through. 

“Are you okay?” Sherlock asked. John always asked him, perhaps now it was his turn, though he didn’t know exactly what he was referring to. Perhaps everything. 

John looked up, surprised by Sherlock’s inquiry. “What?” 

“Are you okay? You seem…. I mean, perhaps with me being so...difficult recently. You look tired.” 

John felt the tension in his shoulders leave as Sherlock took his words at face value. It was a relief, honestly, that he didn’t go look for himself. Though John knew he couldn’t hide the comments on his blog from Sherlock forever. He had been startled by Sherlock’s question, it seemed as if he was full of was to surprise him this afternoon. 

John looked at him, lowering his mug to the table. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit tired.” And unbelievably stressed out. He replied with a nod, he wasn’t lying, he felt tired, drained even, but that wasn’t Sherlock’s fault, it was more of the people who were attacking him, going after him for not knowing everything. 

“What about you? Did you rest okay?” He asked in return, it wasn’t a prying question and a better question if he was okay.

“Fine.” Sherlock looked down at his cup then to his laptop. “Just fine.” 

His feet was on thin ice, or at least that’s what it felt like. He wanted them to be back to normal, bickering and joking and chatting like they usually do; but right now that seemed like a faraway dream. Because the truth was they weren’t fine, according to Sherlock, they were far from fine.

No matter how patient John claims to be, everyone has a limit break - a point where everything becomes too much to be worth fighting for. And John has shown his hand when he decided to leave that same morning, when Sherlock’s antics have proven too much of a burden for him to handle. 

If Sherlock continued on the way he did, if he kept losing control in front of John; John would leave permanently. That was almost an irrefutable fact. 

So he needed to be careful with the things he said. And as far as possible, keep his verbal exchange to a minimal. A simple nod, one-word answers, brief short sentences; that way it kept any misunderstandings from his part to a minimal. 

And he needed to keep his ‘activities’ away from John’s knowledge; he couldn’t even bear to imagine the look of disgust across John’s face if John found out. 

As soon as he realised, his hands were shaking once more so he clenched it into a tight fist. He fixated his vision to the screen and read whatever page he had opened. Online news, CAM Global News to be specific. The headlines were typical click-bait articles.

“Senior Labour MP accused of abusing young boys reported to police by fellow MPs”

“Have scientists found a drug to stop Alzheimer's?”

“Teacher jailed for online sex chats with pupil was allowed to volunteer at primary school after release”

He scrolled past those articles, rolling his eyes and sighing at the misfortune that is the stupidity of ordinary people.

Until he reached the fourth article. 

“Famous Detective Sherlock Holmes murders innocent civilian and receives no punishment”

His heart immediately froze.

No, this can’t be.

He hastily clicked on the article and skimmed it through, his pupils blown wide as fear began to set in, still in disbelief at what he had just read.

The article was an accurate account, but it was nothing the detective wanted to read nor was he ready to admit to the public. But how did the news get out? Wasn’t this supposed to be classified information? Had Mycroft not bothered to stop these rumours from being published? 

Once again, his name was tarred. Just like what happened with Moriarty two years ago, the set-up his arch enemy have cleverly crafted, marking the beginnings of his doom.

Was this the same? Was he being targeted once more?

His heart froze when he saw what were written on the comment section. He couldn’t breathe.

“I knew he was a fake from the beginning! He’s just a being a sad attention-seeking bitch!”

“I knew the victim, he was a nice guy :( There’s no justice here at all, Jeremy Wilson deserves better!”

“First he fakes being a hero, now he’s not even punished for KILLING SOMEONE?! He should just die.”

 

Sherlock stared numbly at his laptop, the memories of everything he went through, everything he had endured - beaten, tortured, rape, solitary confinement - flashed past him, leaving behind those last four simple words at its tail. 

‘He should just die.’

Was it worth it? To survive the torture, to return to London but only as half a man, to live with John once again yet every moment is a ticking bomb, to live a life stripped of anything he deemed enjoyable, unable to consult, unable to go anywhere, meanwhile right outside his front door, news and rumours spread about the viciousness and cruelty of the criminal he truly is, to live through hell for 2 whole years only to be back exactly where it first started; was it worth it?

The craving grew. His hands itched. If only he could take the kitchen knife and make a long, deep slice along his arm, then maybe his mind would stop. Stop asking these questions he didn’t know the answers to. 

Did John know? And Lestrade and Molly, all of them would have seen the article, online or at newsstands, they must’ve seen it already - what must they think of him now?

Shut up! Shut up!

How did the news even get out; was it Donovan? Anderson? And John knew as well, he was there at the station, he heard everything. Perhaps he was already sick of Sherlock at that point; no more thrilling adventures, crippled by weakness, nothing but a burden to John. Selling the news would give the right ammunition for John to justify leaving without looking like a villain.

SHUT UP!

“Did you say something Sherlock?”

Sherlock was immediately self-aware that he might have mumbled something out loud. Not good. He couldn’t show any signs to John that he wasn’t in the least bit okay.

He put on the best nonchalant expression he could as he excused himself to the bathroom. “Nothing, John. Excuse me.”

He timed his gait, refraining himself from rushing, in an attempt to recreate his typical, casual walking. Once he was inside the bathroom with both its door locked, he opened the mirror cabinet where he found a cutter. 

It felt like an invitation.

\----

John stayed silent as he drank his tea, the silence wasn’t as comfortable as he would have like it, there was still tension and both of them weren’t relaxed liked they usually would be. He attributed it to the stress and the tension both of them were feeling since he had mentioned Sherlock’s scars.

And for the moment, he thought everything was fine until he saw Sherlock pause as he scrolled through whatever he had been reading and as the minutes passed his eyes grew wide and he grew impossibly paler than he was.

Something was wrong and John knew it the moment Sherlock muttered something before dismissing it and getting up to retreat to the bathroom. He sat and waited for a few minutes, staring into the pale dregs of his tea. Whatever Sherlock had been reading had upset him and that was cause for concern.

With a gentle thud he placed his mug on the table and stood from his chair and made his way to the bathroom. He paused by the door.

“Sherlock? Are you alright? You seemed a bit upset when you got up.” He said, he didn’t lean too close to the door to avoid a very awkward face to face if Sherlock were to yank open the door. “Are you feeling sick?”

"I'm fine. Just fine," Sherlock replied immediately, hiding the cutter behind his back in reflex. 

"Are you sure?" 

"For God's sake, John I'm in the bathroom. What else would you do in a bathroom in the middle of the day if not to urinate or defecate?"

Leave. Please just leave John. I can't do this while I hear your voice.

"Right, sorry. But if you need me, Sherlock, I'll be right here. I'll always be here."

Dammit, dammit, dammit, why couldn't John understand that the more he stayed the more difficult it was to pretend he was alright.

Suddenly his lungs stopped working; it became difficult to breathe. He parted his lips in an attempt to swallow some air but all he could make was panted breaths. His vision alternated between losing focus and clear sight, and as he lifted the cutter, he realized his hands were shaking. 

'Shit. Not now. This can't happen now.' He thought as his knees gave way and his body nearly crumbled to the floor. His hands gripped the sink bowl over his head like a lifeline; the only thing keeping him upright.

He opened his mouth, ready to cry out "John" to seek help but stopped himself before uttering a single word. 

No. John can't see this. The cutter blade lay in the sink bowl and if John saw it, he would know.

A wave of nausea overwhelmed him and he couldn't resist the urge to retch. His stomach gave out on him. Quickly, he reached for the toilet bowl and heaved out all the contents of his stomach while the unrelenting pounding of his heartbeat thundered in his ears.

His heart raced faster and faster and it felt like he couldn't catch a single breath. He could hear himself pant loudly, desperate for the oxygen his brain so desperately needed.

John, please help me.

No, don't look. John can’t see this.

The entire room swirled around him and the next thing he knew, his head dropped to the floor, cheek touching the cool marble surface as the overwhelming gush of fear and panic took over.

\----

John told himself he had just been over reacting as he padded back to the kitchen, thought he knew that there had to be something wrong. Everything just felt …off. 

With a sigh he reached the table and grabbed his mug and headed over to the counter where the kettle still sat with warm water to make another cup of tea more for something to do and less because he fancied another cup. 

He turned to lean against the counter as the bag steeped it the warm water, his eyes catching Sherlock’s laptop and his browser open to the page he had been viewing before he had made his rather impromptu escape. 

John threw a cautionary glance towards the hall as he approached the laptop, his heart began to beat faster in his chest as his eyes scanned the page. Re-reading over the comments that had been left. 

“I knew the victim, he was a nice guy :( There’s no justice here at all, Jeremy Wilson deserves better!”

“First he fakes being a hero, now he’s not even punished for KILLING SOMEONE?! He should just die.”

His stomach dropped as the realization hit him like a train. Sherlock had stumbled upon one of the articles that had been written about him, and if that had not been bad enough, he had scrolled down to read the comments. Comments made by those who could hide behind usernames and pictures that had nothing to do with them and he can’t help but stare at the words for a moment before he makes his body move back towards the bathroom.

“Sherlock?” He calls, his voice now laced with concern and urgency that can’t be hidden and he waits for a reply but the only thing that meets his ears is silence.

“Sherlock?!”

No response. 

The last line of the last comment is echoing in his head as he checks the door knob to find the bathroom door locked and panic is starting to settle into his stomach as less than favorable thoughts rush through his mind. 

Before he knows it, John is slamming his body into the door, his good shoulder first in an attempt to get it open. The wood creaking under his weight as he hits it, once, twice, three times before it flies open and he stumbles inside to find Sherlock lying on the floor near the toilet. 

“Christ.” John exhaled as he knelt down just behind the other man on the floor. his hand coming to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder. He noticed Sherlock’s chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to breathe.

Panic attack.

“It’s alright Sherlock, I’ve got you.”

John’s voice echoed in his head, the words “it’s okay, you’ll be fine, just breathe” repeated over and over like a chant. 

His voice sounded close yet distant, like John was somewhere far away even though John was right there, holding his arm and pulling him close, rubbing his back in circles in an attempt to calm him down.

Sherlock shut his eyes in a tight squeeze, begging his body to stop, to slow down and just breathe; but the tightness in his chest made it an irrevocably difficult task. There simply was not enough oxygen in the room and Sherlock could feel himself losing consciousness as John's voice moved further and further away.

John, please help me. 

John...

"No, Sherlock, stay with me." John held his shoulders in a firm squeeze as he witnessed Sherlock's eyes begin to flutter. "Sherlock, you can do this, just breathe."

"I-- " Sherlock tried to say "I can't" but all he could make out was a congested wheeze.

"Don't try to speak. Focus on your breathing. You'll be fine, I'm right here. I want you to take a deep breath until I count to four. Can you do that for me?"

Sherlock nodded. 

"One, two, three, four. Alright now I want you to hold your breathe for eight seconds alright, Sherlock, you can do this."

Sherlock followed as instructed, holding his breath until John counted to eight.

"Good. Now breathe it out. Seven seconds, I want you to breathe it out."

Sherlock did as he was told, repeating the pattern of breathing as John guided him through it; four seconds of inhale, hold it for eight seconds, exhale for seven. Over and over, while his hand was held firmly in John's grasp.

With all the energy he could muster, Sherlock squeezed back at John's hand as a reminder to himself that John was truly here and present.

Eventually his breathing eased and his heartbeat regulated back to normal. As soon as he regained control of his body, he released his grasp of John's hand as though he had been scalded by hot water.

Tears threatened to well up in his eyes; tears John was not meant to see. His gaze dropped to the floor as his body wilted into a limp form, trembling ever so slightly despite his deliberate efforts to hide it.

John saw it. Again. His weakness. John would leave. There was no doubt in his head. The only reason why John helped him through his panic attack was because John was a doctor, he saved lives, that's what he does. But that's all there is to it. John would never want a life anchored to babysit a broken man. John must be so sick of him by now. And he hated that he couldn't stop himself from being so pathetic.

He bit his lip. Shame and guilt soon flooded his emotions in place of panic as he attempted to verbalize his jumbled thoughts, but the words that came out was only "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry..." He repeated, this time sounding more like a sob. He clenched his hands into a fist against the satin of his dressing gown. "I won't do it again, I promise. I won't."

“Hey, there is nothing to apologize for.” John said in the same calm voice he had used to help get Sherlock breathing normally again. He tentatively reached to brush away the few strands of dark hair that stuck to Sherlock’s forehead.

He waited for the other man to pull away or shove away his hand, but instead Sherlock didn’t move away, instead he allowed the small gesture of friendly affection John offered.

“There is nothing to be sorry for, you didn’t do anything wrong, you can’t apologize for panicking.”

Sherlock shook his head while muttering the words "no, no" under his breath.

"They know," Sherlock started. "The papers; they...they know about what I did, who I've killed."

Sherlock suddenly looked up to John. "You knew too. About the papers. You must have, your blog has a far wider viewership so naturally your readers would have flooded your blog with questions, opinions, comments."

"Then..." his shoulders slumped as his voice faltered in defeat. "That's it. That's the end of my consulting career. Now everyone knows that I’m a murderer, John. The story the public would chose to believe – Kitty’s article from two years ago, it would all fall so perfectly into place. Sherlock Holmes: the fraud, a murderer who makes false stories to be called a hero – that’s what the public will choose to believe. And everything I’ve done and all the legitimate evidence and police investigation used to clear my name from that time – it would all be negated by this single incident. None of that would matter once the public chooses the more attractive decision to demonize me.”

The realisation struck him slowly; and the more he realised, the more difficult it was to accept. 

“Sherlock…” John began before he was immediately startled by the sudden grip of Sherlock’s hands on his arms. It was not a gesture done out of desire for comfort, quite the contrary, it seemed almost hostile.

“You knew John,” the baritone voice took on a dark, deathly tone. “You knew, and you kept it from me! Had I known earlier I may be able to stop this from happening, stop its spread before it got rampant! But instead you once again decided it was best to keep me in the dark, to ‘protect’ me, is that it?!”

John stared back at him, completely dumbfounded by Sherlock’s sudden, one-eighty change in persona.

“How long have you known, John?!” Sherlock bellowed.

He knew he was being unreasonable. He knew, on many levels, that John was not to blame for what the public now knows. Because the truth was, it did happen; Sherlock had shed blood on an innocent bystander. And the inevitability of its consequence was a certainty from the very beginning.

But it wasn’t something he wanted to swallow. Not now. Not right this moment.

What he needed now was to shed the blame, dissolve the pertinence of his accountability.

So he chose anger.

“You keep deluding yourself that you know what’s best for me; that you are somehow special enough to entitle yourself complete control of my life. But you’re just another, ordinary man, John. You can barely keep hold of your drunkard sister’s life, what makes you think you can dictate mine?” 

Sherlock squeezed tighter into his friend’s arms and yanked John towards him. “And now my entire life, my entire career that I’ve built for years and years, is destroyed. Because of you.”

It didn’t matter that John had just saved him from a panic attack. He needed to be angry at John. Because being angry was much better than feeling afraid.

\---

John took a deep breath, he was so close to Sherlock he could see the fear in his eyes that he was trying to hide behind his anger. Sherlock’s hands were curled in his jumper, pulling against the fabric, stretching it.

“I found out this morning.” He said in the same low voice. “When I went for a walk after I left…Me telling you before wouldn’t have stopped it, they already knew before I did. It was out with the morning edition.”

He wasn’t going to yell, he wasn’t going to argue and he wasn’t going shove him off and he wasn’t going to walk away now. That wasn’t what Sherlock needed, he needed Sherlock to know he wasn’t leaving, not this time around.

“I know I am ordinary and I know I can’t keep my sister’s life in order, but I’m not around to help Harry, and I am here to help you. I’m not delusional and trying to run your life, I can’t run your life, I can hardly run a blog, I just want to be here, to help you, if you’ll let me.”

He looked at Sherlock, keeping his hands at his sides, it wasn’t a sign of defeat more of one of determination.

Sherlock stared back in silence as rage drained from his system. He looked at John with wild, bewildered eyes and his expression resembled that of a lost child.

He expected John to be furious at him, perhaps even scream at him or hit him or storm out.

"But you can't help," he stammered. "There's nothing left for you to salvage. The word is out, the damage is done. Nothing can undo what's happened. And I... I–"

His voice cracked into a coarse whimper, "I'm losing control of myself and everything around me. Your blind faith is noble, John, but…”

Had it not been for the panic attack, he would have cut up the entire length of his arm. If there were no cameras to monitor his movements, he would have shot up while John wasn't around.

Why would John stay? Why did John choose to come back?

“I will only disappoint you."

John’s eyes searched Sherlock’s face, the way his eyes were wide and lost, how it had lost the lines of anger and smoothed out into those of sadness and fear and the way his voice wavered slightly as he spoke. Sherlock’s grip on his jumper was no longer as tight and the fabric went lax in his hands as his fists unclenched slightly.

“You are not going to disappoint me, Sherlock,” he said as he held his gaze. “But you need to believe me when I say that this can be salvaged, maybe not right at this moment, not while everyone is fired up, but everything will be alright.” He wanted to promise it would be, but he couldn’t. Not yet.

His hand reached up and gave Sherlock’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, he wanted nothing more than to make all of this go away, for Sherlock to catch a break and for him to begin to heal from his time in Serbia. Unfortunately that wasn’t going to happen, not yet anyway.

“I can help, if you’d let me, but you have to believe that, but until then, lets get you off the floor yeah? It’s cold and not doing either one of us a bit of good.” He offered, changing the subject, slowly getting to his feet, his hands gripping Sherlock under the arms to bring him up with him.

Sherlock stood in silence, letting his body be guided by John’s cues.

“You look a little worn. Might want to wash your face a bit?” John said as he pushed the errant curls aside.

Sherlock breathed out a soft exhale as his eyelids fluttered shut, the feeling of John’s fingers barely touching his face felt ticklish against his skin. Somehow it made it easy to breathe again. The heaviness in his chest disappeared.

"Mm," he nodded, turning his attention to the sink as he was about to reach the faucet.

That's when he saw it, resting in the sink bowl. The razor blade that he had left there.

His hand froze in its tracks and his stomach sank.

Did John realize...? 

But John's attention was still focused on him. 

Perhaps John wasn't aware then.

He took the razor blade and placed it back into the mirror cupboard. It was just a fallen object, that's all it was.

If he didn't bring any attention to it, John may not even realize.

Water poured as he turned the tap. He cupped his hand into a bowl, letting the water percolate on his palm before splashing it to his face. The water felt cool against his skin, and as it trickled down his face to his lips, he realized he was thirsty.

"John," he sounded sore. "Would you mind making some tea?"

“Yeah, I’ll make us some tea.” John answered as he gave Sherlock’s shoulder another squeeze as he stepped away. He gave the taller man a once over to make sure he was steady on his feet before exiting the bathroom.

John had noticed Sherlock pick up the spare blade that had been sitting in the sink and figured that it had fallen out while Sherlock had most likely been looking for something in the cabinet to calm himself. There was nothing unusual about one of the spare blades they had falling from where they had them.

He grabbed the kettle from the counter and filled it with water before turning it on. He busied himself by dumping the cold tea in their mugs down the sink and rinsing them out all while keeping an ear out for Sherlock, less for the fact to warn him if he was coming but more to make sure he was alright. Sherlock didn’t like it when John was actively questioning him and if he was alright, so instead he would do it from afar, at least then, he hoped the brunet would let him help.

As the kettle whistled, John poured the boiling water into their respective mugs, allowing the tea bags he had set in them steep for the appropriate time. He fixed Sherlock’s accordingly and set it on the table next to the laptop, which he closed the lid to gently, figuring there wasn’t a need to see any more of the comments for the night.

"It's fine, John, it's not my the first time," Sherlock said as he reached over for his tea, sipping it slightly to test its temperature. "It's good."

Tea always helped; it calmed him.

"What's not your first time?"

He took another sip, savouring the flavours this time. "The comments."

'He should just die.'

"It's not a first for me. People don't generally like me, you'd know of course, you've seen how Donovan and Anderson are, and back in school, verbal insults used to be a daily thing. Still is a daily thing, though I can’t say it’s their fault either. I’m not good with people, so it’s completely justified how people act towards me."

'Arrogant freak.'

'Fucking tosser, go kill yourself.'

'Piss off! You’re better off dead!'

"I've heard it all. Should be used to it by now." He pulled his mug closer to his mouth, muttering under his breath. "I shouldn't have overreacted. Stupid."

John looked up at Sherlock, his mug held between his hands.

“That is besides the point Sherlock, it may not be the first time you’ve heard it, it’s not the second or third time either, but no one should ever say those things to you. It doesn’t matter if you aren’t good with people Sherlock, they lack the basic human decency to treat you like a person because you are different.”

John sighed as he looked down at his cooling tea, he was getting worked up, upset over the fact that Sherlock seemed to be perfectly fine with receiving hate because that was what he was used to. 

“The way you acted was perfectly justifiable, I don’t care how used to it you are. It’s not okay that they said they wished you were dead, it’s not okay for people to tell you to kill yourself either.”

He could feel his pulse racing and the desire to find that idiotic individual who told his best friend to kill himself was strong, but he knew that he couldn’t up and leave to go off and find them, Sherlock was more important. Instead he brought the mug up to his lips to take a drink, the warm liquid calming his nerves and his anger.

Sherlock cast him a bewildered look. 

“Why does this upset you?” He pulled down his mug. “Human decency is a social construct based on beliefs, morality; social factors that the masses collectively agree are acceptable and appropriate. Everyone that said those things to me, they’re not wrong. They can’t all be wrong.”

It was meant to be a statement. But it ended up sounding almost like a question.

It seemed unlikely that everyone else was wrong. They were all different people, yet they said the same thing. About him. That he wasn’t normal. Not human. Unfit to be living amongst humans, people – good people – who can coexist peacefully in society. He was an anomaly that didn’t belong. 

“Why does it upset me? Because these people are telling my best friend he should just die.” John stated as he set his mug down. “I’ve already seen you die once Sherlock and that was hard. It’s not something I want to see happen again.”

Why couldn’t Sherlock not see that this wasn’t okay? That just be because so many people said that he deserved to die didn’t mean he did.

He didn’t even want to think about Sherlock dying again, the day he jumped off of Bart’s was still crisp and clear in his mind, so much so, he could still hear the sound of Sherlock’s body impacting the ground.

“It’s not okay Sherlock, whether human decency is a social construct or not.”

John’s words filled his heart with warmth. He couldn’t understand why, but it made him feel wanted and worth something. And not just his set skills of deductive brilliance, but him; Sherlock Holmes, the person.

His brows furrowed though, because it didn’t add up. He was unlikeable, someone who lacks social skills or awareness, someone devoid of emotions or empathy, someone who is rude and arrogant and self-entitled. That’s who he is. At least, that’s who he believes he is. A sociopath. So as a human being, he was not worth anything. 

But as a tool, he could use his brilliant mind to solve other people’s puzzles; solve crimes, fix problems. People valued him for his utility. He was useful; helpful.

That’s why people want him, even if they didn’t like him.

“Even if I died, it won’t make any difference now that my consulting abilities have lost its credibility so what does it matter; my usefulness has ended.” 

His eyes dropped to his tea and his voice felt tight in his throat. “I’m... I’m sorry, again, about what happened at St Bart’s John, but I don’t understand why it’s so upsetting to you. I don’t understand why you would…”

He swallowed his throat.

“...why you would consider me as your friend.”

The tightness in Sherlock’s voice was nearly tangible as he spoke and it made it all that much more apparent that Sherlock’s opinion of himself was just as low as the ones nearly everyone else had of him.

"It does matter Sherlock, whether you believe it or not you are more than your abilities. You are a person whether that is something they want to believe or not.”

He shifted his hands around his mug, the liquid inside sloshing around slightly due to the movement, however John never tore his gaze away from Sherlock.

He had learned from his talks with Harry that is was easier for people like them to believe you when you kept eye contact, it was a sign of telling the truth.

“Why do I consider you a friend? Because of the way you treated me, you may not have good social skills, but you treated me like a person from the first day we met and not some poor pathetic soul that only got noticed because I got shot.”

"But I've angered you so many times," his eyes downcast as he said it. 

A wave of regret and self-hatred came over him as past memories replayed itself in his head. There were just too many: Baskerville, the lie about his death, the incident with breakfast, and those were just to name a few.

"I...I thought you would want to leave. Eventually. That's what always happens, isn't it, they always leave."

And it was his fault. Because he was rude, harsh and selfish. Even to John who has been nothing but kind to him, he still lashed out on John. Constantly.

They always leave, and he deserved that.

"And that's okay, I think, it's perfectly logical if you want to leave."

"Yes I have gotten mad at you, but that doesn’t negate our friendship Sherlock.” John said as he leaned forward slightly, trying to catch Sherlock’s down casts eyes.

He stayed quiet for a moment, allowing the words to sink in, though Sherlock didn’t look up at him still.

"I don’t have any plans on leaving Sherlock.” He added a few moments later.

A blanket of silence fell between them and John was uncertain how to reassure Sherlock further. He spied the other man’s hand resting on the table, arm stretched out against the wood surface of their table.

Slowly he stretched out his own arm, gently setting his hand on top of Sherlock’s. His skin was warm and soft under John’s calloused hand. He gave it a reassuring squeeze, it was nothing more than a friendly gesture, one that he hoped Sherlock understood.

Sherlock looked at his slightly trembling hands be enveloped by John's. Unlike his, John's hands were sturdy, strong, rugged; like someone who've went through and survived the violence of war.

He acknowledged John's gesture with a nod.

"John, there's one more thing, only if you don't mind," he prodded hesitantly, his voice sounding raw and vulnerable.

"What is it?"

Sherlock lifted his head to meet with John's eyes. "Is it alright if we sleep together tonight?"

His face flushed with red in an instant. "No, no, I didn't intend for that to mean that we engage in sexual intercourse. I mean- what I really wanted to say was that we- we sleep beside each other, like we did the other night, except we don't sleep on the couch this time, I thought perhaps my bedroom would be better, more comfortable, or your bedroom, that is only if you don't mind--"

John gave him another firm squeeze. "Of course it's alright, Sherlock. I want to help you." 

The edge of John's lips tugged into a restrained smile, something about Sherlock blushing at his own misspoken insinuation made him uncharacteristically adorable.

Sherlock gave another nod, his cheeks stood out reddish-pink amid his milky white skin.

John didn't mind sharing a bed with Sherlock, he found that it was nice that Sherlock felt safe and comfortable enough with him to share such a close space. 

He allowed his hand to linger a minute more before pulling it away as the pink tinge on Sherlock's cheeks slowly faded. 

"We can share the bed in my room tonight, if that's alright with you." He stated a moment later, the bed was big enough for the both of them to share comfortably, more comfortable than the couch the night before. 

John also knew that Sherlock enjoyed his space and that his room was where he retreated when he wanted to be alone, and he would rather have Sherlock in his room than invading his friends space. 

"When you're ready to turn in, just let me know."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter contains graphic description of violence and rape. If this triggers you, just skip the chapter, you won't miss out much of the plot since this is just a flashback of sorts, I've deliberately made it that way and that's why this chapter is also kinda short. Next chapter will be up in a few hours, it will be a lot more johnlock fluffy than this so keep your hopes up high :)

"And where the fuck do you think you're going?!"  

The man snatched his wrist; large, strong hands yanking at his arm, pulling his pliant body and swiftly flipping him around. The larger man slams him against the wall and a burst of pain exploded from his bare back, battered and raw from a whipping session not two hours ago. His head whiplashed upon impact, hitting the wall with a thud.

His chest heaved heavily, panting at every breath.

Shit. Stupid. He knew his chances were slim. He should've trusted his instincts. He shouldn't have tried to run away.

"You're not going anywhere," the larger man grunted through gritted teeth, pressing his body firmly against Sherlock's. "That's something you have to realize for yourself, kid, there's no escape, nowhere for you to run, you're-- hey! HEY--!"

The Serbian took hold of his jaw and violently snapped up Sherlock's face, forcing him to look at his captor; those dark eyes turning red with fury and his neck strained painfully by the rage of his anger.

"YOU FUCKING LOOK AT ME WHEN I'M TALKING! LOOK AT ME!!"

His grip grew deathly tight around his jaw and Sherlock was left whimpering as his lips trembled visibly. His eyes shifted around and soon settled to focus its glare at the wall behind, too afraid to bring himself to meet his captor's eyes.

"I said. Look. At. Me." The man adjusted his grip down to choke his prisoner's long neck, his other hand joining to get an even stronger, tighter grip around his victim.

Sherlock gasped a choked breath. The grip was too tight. His air supply was cut off and immediately, panic skyrocketed in his head.

"I'm....sorr...I-I'm... sorry--"

Tears welled up in his eyes. Every breath felt stuck in his throat, where his airway was obstructed by the Serbian's deathly grip. His own hands scrambled frantically at his captor's muscled arms, desperately trying to peel away the giant hands around his throat.

"Are you trying to make me look stupid, is that it?" His arms gained height and Sherlock's feet slowly lifted from the ground. " 'cause I don't like looking stupid, kid. So I suggest you fucking _listen_  to me, 'cause right now this is me when I'm only a _little_ annoyed, and I don't think you want to see me when I get  angry - _really_ angry."

"Can't....bre....athe... " Sherlock struggled for air but his body was becoming limp and lifeless by the lack of oxygen. His eyes began to roll back and he could feel his consciousness slipping away. "Ple....ase...."

"You pathetic cunt."

Suddenly, the grip around his neck was released and his lanky body instantly crumbled to the ground. Sherlock coughed and wheezed painfully, his throat throbbed and his chest panted and heaved desperately to get air into his lungs.

The Serbian paced around his body, eyeing him like an eagle stalking its prey. "It's time you need to be taught a lesson. And this won't be our usual arrangement. God no. This will be special." With a final smirk, he dug his fingers into Sherlock's dark curls and pulled the entire weight of his body by the hair, down the hall and into a small room. The room was dark and dingy, like any others there. It was empty besides a table with several whips and ropes, and an old mattress on the floor.

Sherlock, still dazed and gagging for air, could not bring his mind to deduce anything about his captor's intention or what he meant by 'special'. His scalp stung from the pull and his back still throbbed by the countless welts of whips which tore his flesh apart. The man shoved him on to the mattress, landing him on his back. Sherlock let out an agonizing groan as his raw back meet with the rough texture of the mattress as his captor sat himself on top of him, his knees trapping Sherlock's bony hips in between.

"Nowhere to run this time." He pushed the detective's hands over his head and, with a rope at his disposal, tied his hands up with more pressure than necessary. "You're mine."

Sherlock struggled and fought back, wriggling his hands around to make the task difficult to accomplish, and lifted his feet in an attempt to knee the man above him. The man only pulled tighter on the ropes around his wrists; too tightly, until it became too painful for Sherlock to even move, let alone wriggle his hands free, but his legs continued to scramble for purchase and one lucky kick on the stomach sent his assailant recoiling back in pain.

"Fucking piece of shit!"

Hands balled into a fist, the Serbian threw a punishing punch across his face, sending Sherlock to lose all the energy left in him, leaving his body fell lifeless and limp. There were black spots in his vision and for a while everything went blur.

"I'll fucking teach you a lesson you will never forget. I'll make sure you remember every moment of it."

A sudden, forceful tug of his trousers left Sherlock completely naked, his cock completely exposed much to the captor's amusement. The man unzipped his trousers, revealing his already hard cock, angry and red and desperate for some release. Sherlock's eyes widen in shock at the realization of what's about to happen.

_No. God, no, this can't be happening._

The man spat into his palms and gave himself several strokes. If his intention was to use saliva as lubrication, he knew it wasn't enough. But that's exactly what he wanted; to fuck his helpless prisoner dry and rough. Oh, it will feel so good. And the look on his prisoner's face when he sodomizes him will be so worth it. Just the thought made his cock impossibly hard. Impatient, he inserted his finger into Sherlock's tight hole, sending Sherlock to gasp and spasm at the sudden intrusion.

"Never been touched before, have you, sweetheart?" The Serbian teased, amused by Sherlock's helpless and desperate expression. "You really are a fucking virgin? Unh my lucky day." He slid a second finger and Sherlock thrashed against the dirty mattress.

It's too much. The feeling of the man's long, large fingers inside him was unbearable. There was just too much.

The man adjusted the angle of his fingers, pressing deeper and folding it into a hook, causing him to brush against Sherlock's prostate. Sherlock arched his back, unable to contain the overwhelming sensation, as his mouth parted open to let out an almighty moan.

He felt disgusting and wrong. How could he feel pleasure from being used shamelessly like this--

His thoughts were cut short when the man above him crammed a third finger inside him, wiggling his fingers inexorably to stretch open Sherlock's tight entrance, and -- fuck -- it was a sensation Sherlock had never felt before, a mix of pleasure amid the unrelenting pain.

The man pulled out all three fingers, eager for what would come next. He pushed Sherlock's legs apart and positioned his hard, throbbing cock at Sherlock's entrance, barely touching the tip, leaving Sherlock to seize in complete fear.

"Please...please don't, I'll tell you anything, just....please--"

Without warning, the man rammed his cock into him and pain exploded through his senses. His gut wrenched as he could feel the assailant's giant, thick cock buried firmly inside his body.

The man pulled out a little and then slammed in again, hands on his victim's thighs to spread him impossibly open. The look of utter helplessness and shock across Sherlock's face only made him giddy. A smirk pulled at the edge of his mouth, unable to contain the satisfaction that he just scored himself a virgin. A fucking virgin. Pure, inexperienced and untouched; and _he_ was the one to have the privilege of tearing apart this particular virgin.

"Fuck, you're so damn tight." He panted, his thrusts still unrelenting. "You feel so fucking good, you know that? And you're mine. You. Are. Fucking. Mine." He gave a particular violent thrust at each word.

Sherlock whimpered in agony at each thrust. The rhythm that the Serbian had set up was ruthless, his hips jerked with torturous force, snapping Sherlock in two again and again and again, occasionally brushing his prostate, causing Sherlock to let out a sinful sound.

"You cockslut. You like this don't you?" He rammed his hips into Sherlock in a particularly brutal thrust. Sherlock had to scramble for purchase. It was too much. Far too much.

_Please stop. Please just let this end._

Another violent thrust and hot tears welled up in his eyes.

Pleasure rose inside as the Serbian began to feel his climax reaching. He quicken his pace and slams into Sherlock harder and harder in a punishing speed. Sherlock could feel the overwhelming surge of electric shock each time his prostate was hit, and the bruising pressure of fingers digging into his tender skin. The Serbian did not relent, he thrusts hard into Sherlock and the friction sent him closer and closer to his climax. He adjusted himself to get a better angle and thrusts with unforgivable force. Once, twice; and finally white, hot fluid filled Sherlock's body, as the Serbian shuddered in the fallout of his climax.

His cock still tensing inside Sherlock, the Serbian leaned in and engulfed his mouth, kissing his victim amid hot, panted breaths, unable to resist the temptation of the cupid's bow lips. He dug his tongue deep into Sherlock's mouth as their body touched, chest heaving at every breath. When the last wave of pleasure finally subsided, the Serbian pulled himself away from the kiss, a line of saliva extended from Sherlock's lips to his, and pulled out his cock with an undignified squelch.

"Hope you learn your lesson. Or I'll be more than happy to teach you some more." He snarled as he readjusted himself in his trousers.

With a final smirk, he gave Sherlock a kick in the gut and left. Hands still bound by rope, Sherlock laid there lifelessly on the mattress, blood and semen trickled down his thighs.

_John said I was safe in Baker street. That any nightmare of Serbia is just a dream. So please wake up._

_I don't want to relive this anymore. This is just a dream, isn't it? So why won't I wake up?_

_Just wake up._


	13. Chapter 13

His eyes snapped open, mouth agape with heavy, panted breaths as Sherlock came to realize that he was covered in sweat.

_Nightmare again._

_Just a dream._

He swallowed a lung full of air, attempting to regain composure, but he just can't shake off the images from his head.

Especially not this time.

Nightmares and flashbacks were frequent, almost routine, in his everyday life ever since his return. Chained up and beaten like a punching bag; endless strikes of a whip tearing apart at his flesh; the skin on his back red, bloodied and raw; and liquids of sweat, saliva, tears and blood would trickle down his chin.

Those dreams always brought him back to that dungeon. Even if he knew he was at Baker Street, even if he knew he was no longer physically trapped, his mind was still imprisoned, and the pain and tears and torture felt unbearably real, as if all of it were happening once again.

But this time was different. This time was far worse than the any of nightmares he had so far.

He dreamt of his rape.

Sherlock realized he was still panting hard and his shirt was damp by the sweat.

He narrowed his vision to John's sleeping form beside him; the way his chest rises and falls in a steady pattern, the soft noises that escaped his slightly parted mouth every time he exhaled. John was mere inches from him, his face turned towards him, basked in darkness which made his expression indiscernible despite their closeness. Yet everything about John seemed to emanate a peaceful calm.

Then a thought occurred to him; John was still fast asleep, despite him having a nightmare.

Was it because he was quiet this time? Or had John been too exhausted to be awoken by it?

Sherlock felt guilt at the thought, knowing that he was the cause of John's exhaustion.

"I'm sorry, John. For everything I've put you through," he whispered to his unconscious flatmate, his voice low and gentle. "You're always so good to me and I still don't understand why; why you're patient with me, why you always forgave me, why you still stayed."

John remained fast asleep.

Sherlock's eyes wandered at his flatmate, narrowing at the sight of John's thin lips.

He wondered how John kisses his girlfriends; does John kiss with ferocity; does he bite her lips and push himself against hers, is it wet and aggressive; does he also hold her down when she pulls away; would he pull her hair to bite down her neck; would he kiss her until she's bruised, until her lips bleed, even if she said no, even when she's struggling to get away?

Or would John be gentle?

To be honest, he believed John to be a gentle kisser. But for some reason he found that idea difficult to grasp; that a kiss could ever be gentle.

"Mmm," John hummed as he shifted on the bed, startling Sherlock from his reverie. John opened his eyes slowly as he was roused from his slumber, digging the palm of his hand into his eyes as he attempts to gather focus in his vision.

"Sher...Sherlock, you're still up, what's wrong?"  John mumbled drowsily.

"No." He replied too quickly. "Nothing. It's nothing John, go back to sleep."

John blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision as he woke up properly. Sherlock's response call a little too quickly for his liking and it took him a few moments to realize why.

Even in the darkness he could see the nightshirt Sherlock wore clinging to his body with sweat as his hair stuck to his face and the faint light coming in through the blinds illuminated the perspiration that coated his brow and neck.

His chest was still heaving slightly, but not to the point where Sherlock couldn't breathe, telling John that he had just woken up from a nightmare.

Guilt slowly crept into his chest at the fact he had not woken up before Sherlock had and wakened him from his dream in the chances of saving him from reliving something unimaginable.

Slowly John sat up, ignoring Sherlock's statement of telling him to go back to sleep. How did Sherlock expect him to sleep while he was suffering from the after effects of a nightmare? He would rather sit up and be awake with Sherlock than sleep and have his flatmate sleep deprived.

"I'm fine Sherlock." He said as he rested against his pillow, looking at the man besides him. "I know you don't like me prying, but are you sure you are alright?"

John was afraid Sherlock would think he was trying to coddle him and he would storm away and sit awake in another part of the flat leaving him to lie awake and worry.

"If things aren't you can tell me you know. Like I said before, you don't even have to go into detail; you can just tell me the basics to get it off your chest."

"No it's...fine. I just..."

Sherlock bit his lower lip, his eyes breaking contact from John.

"How do you kiss someone?" He began, his cheeks turning pink, slightly embarrassed by his own question. "Do you mark them, or pin them down so that you have them in your complete mercy? It always seems to be soft and gentle in the movies, but it's never really like that in real life, is it?"

John was slightly taken aback by Sherlock's question. It certainly wasn't something he had been expecting from him.  He didn't say anything for a moment as he made sure that he heard what Sherlock had asked correctly.

Of course it was something he would ask John, Sherlock had no experience with that sort of thing, no desire to, and that was perfectly fine. But John was the one person Sherlock knew had experience in that department.

"Kissing should be soft and gentle, how it is in the movies is how it generally is." John began as he looked at Sherlock's face. "It's not supposed to be violent or leave bruises."

He took a breath before continuing.

"It should be something that you would enjoy and typically not about marking someone or having them at your mercy unless that is something you are both into."

Sherlock didn't say anything, merely nodding his head as a gesture of acknowledgement.

"Go back to sleep, John," he said a few moments later, settling himself into bed and pulling the duvet over his shoulder, facing away from John. "You have work tomorrow."

But he didn't sleep. Something about John's reply felt unsettling in his chest.

A simple act of kissing, according to John, should be gentle and enjoyable, a gesture to show how much you love someone and a way to ascertain if someone loves you.

Normal people must find it a typical, ordinary thing; something they experience on a frequent, routine basis, something expected in daily life.

Something Sherlock was so devoid of.

Even something as simple as a kiss. The only experience of a kiss he ever had was with his captor, with his hands chained up and restrained, and his body pinned down.

Maybe that's the only kind of affection he deserved. Because he wasn't normal and he didn't deserve the gentleness and soft touch.

Sherlock breathed out heavy air. He didn't want to sleep for fear of the nightmares that might come, but he didn't want to bother John either, it was he last he could do for him. And he needed John to not worry, so he tried to remain still to mislead John into thinking that he was sound asleep, unaware that his body was trembling slightly.

John didn't move however, once again ignoring Sherlock's statement as he continued to sit up against the pillows. His eyes on Sherlock's back as he laid still. He could see his body tremble lightly even though he was covered up.

"Sherlock." He said quietly "You're trembling."

Sherlock instinctively pulled the duvet higher. "I'm fine. Just a little cold."

Except that the room was warm, the air conditioning had been turned on as a mild heater to set a comfortable temperature in the room. It was strange that Sherlock felt it cold enough for his body to shiver.

John frowned as Sherlock pulled the blanket tighter around him. The room was a comfortable temperature, so it was relatively strange for Sherlock to be cold, considering he had never complained about being cold before.

John turned on his side slightly while keeping a good distance between their bodies as to not surprise Sherlock by the full body contact he was not expecting.

He reached over and brushed Sherlock's curls away from his forehead before placing the palm of his hand against his forehead. Sherlock felt warm to the touch, warmer than usual.

"You're feeling rather warm, you may have a fever." He said as he removed his hand. Quietly he threw the blankets off of him as he threw his legs over the side of the bed.

"I am going to get a thermometer to double check, better to be safe than sorry."

"John don't," Sherlock reached for John's arm just as John was about to stand up.

The last thing he wanted was to trouble John again, least of all in the middle of the night when John should be resting for work tomorrow.

"I'm fine. Really, it's nothing."

John felt Sherlock's hand close around his wrist and he turned to gaze at his flatmate. The heat Sherlock's hand radiated was seeping into his own skin, telling the doctor that he wasn't fine."

"Sherlock, it's not a problem, I just want to double check." John assured him. "Fevers are not something to brush off and you do feel rather warm."

He placed his free hand on the paler one wrapped around his wrist, Sherlock's warm hand now sandwiched between his cooler arm and hand.

"Just let me check, if it's nothing, then I'll get some sleep, alright?"

He didn't manage to say anything before John slipped through his fingers and left the room.

Sherlock pulled himself up to sit and waited in the darkness, only a narrow gap from the half-open door provided illumination into the room. He wondered how many girlfriends John have had, and how many of them have slept on that same bed; how many have sat there where he was, waiting for John to come back; how many have made love to John on that same bed, and made John feel happy and satisfied.

He realized he didn't belong there, didn't deserve to be there. The room was a place for John to rest and unwind. A place where John could have his privacy and personal space, where only a selected few had the privilege to share that space, people who he loved and cared for, people who gave him emotional and physical satisfaction and intimacy; whereas Sherlock certainly did not fit the bill.

If anything, he was a burden to John.

He decided he should leave. With one hand on the headboard, he heaved himself up, feeling a wave of dizziness as he stood up. His head was pounding and it felt heavy to walk. Fast movements would cause the room around him to swirl so he moved carefully, pacing his stride to accommodate for the headache.

 

"Where are you going?" John furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, standing at the door with a thermometer at hand.

Sherlock looked up, surprised by John's sudden presence. Odd, why didn't he hear John's footsteps. Then again, it was hard to focus on anything with the incessant pounding in his head and freezing temperature of the room.

"I told you I'm fine. I should go back to my room." He replied as he continued to walk past John. "I apologise for the inconvenience tonight."

He reached out and grabbed Sherlock's arm above the elbow as he passed. John's gentle grip on Sherlock's arm, something he noted before he began to speak.

"You're not fine." John said as he looked at Sherlock who was looking down at John's hand on his arm. "You are warmer than you should be, I can feel it through your clothes."

Silence feel between them for a moment, only to be broken by John a moment later.

"You aren't feeling well and that's fine Sherlock, you don't have to go back to your room, just come back to my bed and rest and we'll see how warm your temperature is running alright?"

"It's not an inconvenience Sherlock, honestly, I don't mind you up here. Your company is always welcome."

Taking care of Sherlock wasn't an issue, John didn't mind. And in the pale light John could see how pale Sherlock really looked, the sweat on his face and neck was more pronounced and yet he was trembling under John's hand. He was definitely not fit to go down the stairs, let alone to lie in his cold bedroom and get worse.

The guilt set in his stomach filled him with reluctance to stay in John's room, but his body was weak and the prospect of staying was much more inviting than having to travel down the stairs with a headache.

Sherlock dropped his head in a nod and retreated back to bed, much to John's relief, settling himself in and protecting himself under the warmth of the duvet.

The bed dipped as John sat on the edge near him. Sherlock closed his eyes as John's finger brushed his skin to push aside the errant curls aside. He set the thermometer near Sherlock's forehead and waited until it beeped.

"38.7°C. That's pretty high," John read.

"Its fine, I just need to rest, it's all just transport," Sherlock dismisses, shifting himself to a more comfortable position on his side.

"Your transport is important too Sherlock." John said as he placed the thermometer on the nightstand on Sherlock's side of the bed. "While rest is important so is bringing down your fever."

He pushed himself to his feet, making sure the blanket was secure around Sherlock before traveling back down stairs for a glass of water and some Ibuprofen to help with the fever.

The aspirin were located in the medicine cabinet a shelf above the loose razors they had. The box of medicine had yet to be opened. The box ripped open with ease and John took out one of the blister packs, slipping it into the pocket of his sleep pants.

He paused as he exited the bathroom and turned to look at Sherlock's half open bedroom door and debated for a moment whether or not he should fetch some clean night clothes, and the idea that Sherlock was going to try and sleep in sweaty clothes that would only make him feel more miserable didn't set right with John.

John didn't spend that much time looking for fresh night clothes that Sherlock to change into, and the moment he had the cool glass of water in his hand he headed back upstairs.

Sherlock's head throbbed immensely and his eyes felt heavy; his body was desperate for some sleep and it was getting more and more difficult to fight off the want for rest. But he needed to stay awake to avoid reliving his sexual assault once again.

God, why did it feel so cold?

He pulled his knees up, folding himself into a ball in an attempt to warm himself with his own body heat, but it was still freezing. His breath felt hot against his skin.

A second later, John enters with fresh clothes and medicine.

John noticed the fact Sherlock had curled himself up into a ball as soon as he stepped into the room and was glad he had made the decision to bring the blister pack with him.

He placed the glass of water next to the thermometer and turned on the lamp just behind it. It turned on with a gentle click, filling the room with a soft glow, illuminating the huddled figure under his duvet better.

"Sherlock, I need you to sit up." John said as he placed his hand on the other man's shoulder.

Sherlock groaned in protest of John's request, he had no energy to move, he wanted nothing more than for the throbbing in his head to cease and for his body not to feel so cold.

John waited a moment for his flatmate to move, instead Sherlock stayed curled up. He sighed softly as he tossed the clean nightshirt he had brought with him gently on the bed. He slipped one arm under Sherlock's warm body slowly pulling the other man into a sitting position, resting him against the headboard.

Sherlock groaned as he was uncurled, his body protesting the movement, he attempted to glare at John as he popped two aspirin into his hand, but he didn't have the energy, there was barely any energy in him to accept the pills and if John had not been holding the glass of water, he most likely would have spilt it all over.

John placed the glass back on the table as Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his body still trembling slightly. His shirt clung to his body as the sweat that plastered it there dried.

"I'm going to help you change out of that shirt and into a clean one and then you can sleep alright?" John asked, receiving a nod as an answer. He moved a bit closer, gently grasping the sides of Sherlock's night shirt, tugging it up. The fact that he tensed slightly was not lost on the doctor.

"It's alright Sherlock." He soothed before continuing. He focused more on pulling off the fabric than he was to the discoloration of the healed marks on Sherlock's chest and torso.

In his weakened state, Sherlock was pliable, making it easier for him to slip his arms out of the sleeves as he pulled it over his head and tossed it off to the side.

The trembling increased slightly as Sherlock's skin was exposed while John grabbed the shirt he had brought and unfolded it. He slipped the clean shirt over the brunette's head and proceeded to slip his arms in one at a time. He had managed to get one arm in and as he reached for the other one was when he saw it. Carefully John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's wrist and pulled his arm up gently.

Against the pale skin were red, angry marks. The skin surrounding them were tinged a dark pink, thankfully they had not begun to ooze pus. The broken skin around the cuts was to clean for it to be an accident and it was too far up to be caused by the broken glass of the plate. They were deliberate.

He knew that Sherlock had been having a difficult time coping with what had happened over the last few months, and the last few days certainly had not been easy. There were no scars or other cuts that were healing, meaning that this was something new, something that had just happened.

Had Sherlock begun to cut himself in order to have something that he could control? Or was this the only way he thought he could cope with everything that was happening?

Sherlock furrowed his brow slightly as he realized John had yet to put his other arm into his shirt. He lifted his head to look and his heart immediately sank.

John had seen his cuts. He was a trained doctor, he would be able to tell that the injuries were self-inflicted; the cuts were straight and even; neat, deliberate.

Like a desperate teenager trying to seek attention.

His eyes widened and his body tensed, pulling his arm away. What would John think of him now? He must feel so repulsed. God, John was going to leave now, he was sure of it.

His eyes clenched shut, waiting for John to drop his arm and walk away or even tell him to get out. He knew it was only a matter of time, and this was the trigger.

Instead John eased his arm into his shirt and pulled it down around his body, without uttering a single word about the cuts, not a single question or outburst of disappointment or anger. All there was was silence.

The sound of his heartbeat reverberated in his ear, waiting for the silence to ease; for John to say something.

John stood up and made his way back down to the stairs to grab the medical kit that he had under the bathroom sink. The wounds on Sherlock's arm needed to be properly cleaned to stop the infection from getting worse and possibly spreading.

It took him less than five minutes to grab the kit and make his way back up to his bedroom. He had no desire to question Sherlock at the moment, his main concern was getting him cleaned up and comfortable so he could sleep.

Sherlock was still propped up against the headboard as he entered the room and he appeared as if he didn't even realize John had left. John placed his medical bag on the bed and reached to roll up the sleeve of his friends injured arm and placed it on his lap.

This was something he used to do quite often, cleaning up Sherlock's cuts, but the case was fully stocked. John pulled out a few packets of iodine swabs, antibiotic cream and pristine white bandages and set out cleaning the infected cuts.

Sherlock groaned in discomfort as the cuts burned from being cleaned, but John took that as a sign that whatever was causing the infection was being cleaned away. After applying the antibiotic cream he wrapped the wounded area tight enough to stop the bandages from coming off but loose enough they could steal breathe.

"There we go." John said softly as he pulled down Sherlock's sleeve. He moved his bag to the floor on the other side of the night stand so it would be close at hand if needed.

John helped eased Sherlock farther down the bed until his head rested against the pillow. He pulled the duvet back up around his shoulders before sitting on the edge of the bed. His hand resting on Sherlock's forehead for a moment before he ran his fingers through the messy curls.

Sherlock's eyes opened slightly and he gave John a weary look.

John gave him a soft smile. "Sleep Sherlock, you're okay." He said as he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the other man's warm forehead.

Sherlock nodded slightly or rather attempted to as he closed his eyes, melting into the bed as John ran his fingers through his hair, slowly drifting off.

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair until he was certain the other man was asleep and decided to stay up a while longer just to make sure Sherlock was indeed asleep.

He stood and turned off the lamp on the nightstand before moving back to his side of the bed and crawling under the covers. His body was closer to Sherlock's this time, but not too close to startle Sherlock from any inadvertent, sudden contact.

Sherlock looked peaceful in his sleep, his dark lashes resting itself against his fair skin, his expression completely at ease. He looked years younger, and there was something about it that made him look almost innocent like a child.  

Underneath the fame, brilliance and reputation, Sherlock was still just a human, with his own vulnerabilities and fears and demons. It's hard to imagine just the kind of torture and pain he had to endure for two years; with the world thinking him dead, with no one he could rely on, no one to call for help.

Even now, Sherlock is still carrying so much burden on his own. And yet he survived it all and he was still alive. In all aspect, Sherlock was an amazing person. That fact was unchanging in John's eyes.

John let out a breath and finally allowed himself to drift off into slumber.

 


End file.
